100 Blinks
by Anthropophagite
Summary: A challenge to write for 100 Prompts, featuring anything from microdrabbles to outright drabbles based around Slugterra. Canon characters are prevalent, as well as OCs. -Part of the Babylon Thrum continuity, so expect some BlakkxWar/IndustRev- -Now featuring HoltxTat and that roiling bit of chaos-
1. 001 Dance

It is movement. Control, precision. Every muscle screams in anticipation of the next shift, no rest for pure momentum. Every step is practiced and placed, right down to the stomp significant to the routine.

Air whirring over the katars in hand, the metal vibrating with a musical hum, an out-of-place jovial tune to follow elegant swirl of arms as both balance and emphasis to the dance. To skirmish is an art, as dance is an art, with the soundtrack behind. Fluid combination makes her untouchable, impregnable. Split-second choreography is always better, unpredictable to both parties.

Hard to track, harder to counter.  
A juggernaut of motion, like the painter's brushstroke on canvas, leaving carved trails of paint.

Wrists snap, angles shift just slightly, the blades' key changing from major to minor. From angelic choir to funerary dirge, one final swirling step to avoid a single Sluggy projectile and she is airborne. The katars utter a hiss, their song interrupted with the sound of splatter.

The art of dance was never meant solely for the theatre's stage.

* * *

 **A/N** **:** Thinking on trying to keep up with these; still dunno if I want to do every day, every other day, or once a week. If you want to try them, lemme know and I'll link you to the list of Prompt Themes I'm working from.  
I'll try to keep them short, but depending on the prompt may depend on length.


	2. 002 Treat

Cries of hurt rent the air.

Perhaps an unfortunate youngster who has fallen prey to gravity, perhaps a Slinger who has met another's business end. Peridot gaze seeks the afflicted alongside beady eyes of the loyal Frightgeist at the shoulder. Sigh of relief that it is the former and not the latter; he does not feel like playing the pacifist today before administering care to the wounded.

 _Ianmo_ stops at his command before the stricken child, quiet and friendly reassurances passing through accented lips to anchor calm and not panic. Even through the painted skull, his amiable nature shines, a beacon in such dim time as this. Award-winning smile granted only when permission is given, small laugh gifted as ails are forgotten for the oddity of the skull-faced creature.

Explanations follow every action. Poultices applied, more for keeping infection from ravaging than any other thing. Bandaging comes last, Minerva keeping watchful gaze at her handler's workings and the well-being of the injured.

Scrapped knees are nothing to sneeze at, and the child has certainly won their war with the pavement. Wear those wounds proud, brave soldier; they serve the reminder that physics is a cruel mistress.

Thanks are bestowed and a grateful pat to Minerva's head given before they run off. All in the day's work for a healer.

 _Where have all the medicine-men gone?_

* * *

 **A/N** : Used Death for this, since 'treat' has two meanings, and treating the wounded has always been his specialty.


	3. 003 Sand

It's everywhere. Loose and gritty, moving at the slightest displacement.

Little crystals shaved to the floor following hundreds of millions of years of erosion and natural carving of the walls and ceilings around all that is Slugterra. Though if one were to ask the resident mechanic, keeper and restorer of antiquated mechabeasts produced no more on Slugterran soil, she might have a different word for the shards of quartz and limestone and granite that litter the ground and in nooks and crannies unseen.

 _Nuisance._

Old mechabeasts require ventilation, intakes constantly clogged with dust and dirt and -above all- sand. It gets everywhere it shouldn't.

In _joints._  
In _hydraulics._  
In _piping_ and _computer systems_.

Components for the AI and display systems, supposed to be airtight and isolated, still need cleaning at the end of the day from teeny tiny particles, too numerous to fathom. Around the cores, around the fuel injectors. Around and around and around.

She shows no physical expression, as is her way. Simply goes about cleaning the mess, night after night after a hard day's ride with little more than a grumble under her breath. Dirt is bad, but sand is worse. She'll sleep when it is cleaned from systems four, when joints and hydraulics cease to grind with fine little pieces of sharp coarse earth embedded in the grease. Parts are hard to find, it is best to keep them from wearing down as much as possible.

Even in her sleep, she counts it. But this sand, pure white and stark black, is different from the tawny colored menace that plagues her day after day. It pours like water, mixing and mingling and changing colors and making shapes, a cascade of hues and shades falling into a bottomless abyss.

She has seen it wane twice now in the Dreamtime, dark correlations in the Waking synonymous. She does not want to see it wane again, the only sand she will ever be delighted to continue seeing.


	4. 004 Salt

He knows he wasn't the only one who believed that his mother was the spice of life among those in the cavern around him.

Her missing presence was like someone took the sugar out of a cake, made it a tasteless lump. Might as well have taken the baking soda out too, so it would never rise. Like the spirit of Babel at her disappearance.

Papa tries so hard, but even he seems to be missing that one ingredient. In humans, it is patience. But in baking and in cooking, it is something else. Papa's dishes are losing steam, keeping up with the household and trying to live his late wife's legacy at the same time. His tired wrinkling face lights up when the eldest son walks through the front door again.

Amidst Ameli wanting her big brother to pay her mind, which he does without question as all big brothers should, he offers his hand to help in the daily tasks. They both miss her dearly, and together, the workload is shared. He always had his mother's love of baking, and of cooking. To see bright faces at the taste of home-made goods brought to miners and farmers, workers in the factories far below.

He is that missing ingredient in times overwhelming, when nothing seems to go just right. He is a pinch of salt, the stabilizer.

* * *

 **A/N** : Plague always was a family man, much like his teeny father.

The entire family likes to cook, but baking is their specialty, among familial ties.


	5. 005 Clip

Xerxes has always been the one with the dramatic enthusiasm. The son with the penchant for the theatrics. Whether with a public face or the ever-present darker dealings, he does it with a flare, and it is for that he is known.

Charismatic smiles don't always sway people, though. A lesson learned the hard way. Such has been events this night.

Still with lips pulled back in a fanged grin, reveling in his power and control of the situation. Not everyone gives up what he wants with honeyed words and fake amiability. Sometimes, it is best to revert to Thaddius' old ways and simply use brute force.

One too many times, when he announces this is the way he has chosen, he has heard, "Thaddius Blakk was someone to be feared! You're just a lying whelp."  
More than once, he has forced those opposing to accept his paternal heritage and his family name. And he relishes it every time.

This is no different. A trade of insults concerning his lineage after a personable [and frankly, reasonable] offer, spitting threats that they'll never move and that the young Blakk will have to make them. Of course, this is a challenge he is all-too-ready to accept, promises that he certainly will before giving the orders to his accompanying Vanguard.

Slugfire is exchanged for slugfire, Xerxes helping to boost his side considerably with his own offensive. Artful dodging of all Slugs fired at him directly, a swirling of the long-coat behind and around with a flash of the red mantle. He gives constant promises that it will all be over without harm if they simply give in, his response is with increased fire.

Eventually, ammo runs dry and the order is given to move in and surround the resistance. Held at point, he scrutinizes them after making sure the Twins are back in their hidden shoulder-holsters. Dark blue looks over those who have gone against him, cold and hard. Like his mother, eating innards like acid with a glance. He speaks with short and sharp syllables, personable nature lost with what he deems an unnecessary fight.

"Clip their teeth and have them moved out of my way."

In that moment, he has his father's growl. It silences any argument or pleas, sucks any further fight out of the opposition. The would-be warriors will be removed as he deems fit, without weapons as probation for their offense.

Even now, having proven his name, the rustle of the coat is heard as it fans behind him. He is still theatrical, and even when angry, he revels in knowing they will not question his name again.


	6. 006 Bread

He isn't allowed to be here for long. The magnet doesn't like it when he is down in its depths, in his cavern. He knows and understands its limit and as a result, keeps an ear on the clock. Until that allotted time, he is content to mingle.

Babelan folk are more used to their Fifteenth War keeping his distance, living in a small home erected just outside the Holdt of Gnomes that settled outside the only pass into the Gravity Wastes. Usually, he goes to other towns and settlements in the upper Reach for supplies, where the land itself won't rise against him. Every so often, though, he manages his way home and simply pays mind to the mysterious entity that is the magnet.

His presence is mildly surprising, wandering the upper commercial islands without much trouble, and without reaction from the thrumming walls that encase the strange chasm-cavern. Without emotion showing at all, he is still polite. Friendliness is mutual, answers to questions in concerning what one thing does or the other. Surprise wanes to joy in the other inhabitants to see all of their Horsemen in one cavern again. They all want to keep him, to speak with him on his curiosities, but they know they cannot. Like him, they know his presence among them is limited.

He has bought a few baubles. Some for his mother as a reminder of home, some for Xerxes with his ever-moving mind, a few books for himself to keep the long days alone between missions. Nothing for his father out of respect and request; Thaddius never liked frivolous giftings and he has all he needs or wants of his own accord.

Smell of fresh _naan_ pulls him from his musings, attention drawn to one of the bakeries in the upper islands. The sugared flatbread has been pulled off its ovens, the top decorated with careful hand in intricate patterns also made with the bread. It has been a while since he last tasted it and the scent wafting over the perfumed crowds makes his mouth water.

He manages to catch the attention of the young woman in charge of the sales, readying to make his way toward her when it happens. The magnet's voice changes, audible above the roar of the twin waterfalls at the front and back of the caverns. It starts at the top of the carved ceiling far above, a shift to lower octaves so deep, it rattles window panes. Activity stops immediately, hushed conversation changing to the strange behaviour of the creature that is the magnet.

No one notices that War has retreated, knowing more than anyone what that sound is, and what it means.  
No one, that is, but the young baker.

* * *

 **A/N** : If it makes you feel better, the baker leaves him some of the _naan_ on his doorstep later…


	7. 007 Fish

They're not sure where it came from.

Certainly, they know what it is; Babel education of the young is quite good. They recognize its sleek silvery body, cutting through the water of the pond the channel-workers had herded it into.

Slugs are easier to catch a hold of before they wash down into The Pit. They understand that they are being helped and double their own efforts to make the process easier. Fish, however, are not that easy to protect.

It is not happy with its new location, thrashing about in its own confusion, amid the confusion of the children at its status as living. Slugs are resilient, able to squish and squik in order to survive the long drop into the collection pools beneath the twin cascades that thunder their inconsistent rhythm to the magnet's humming tunes. Fish and other such living creatures washing down into their caverns would not be able to survive the shock of the fall, even if they didn't smack against the bottom of the basins.

It thrashes again, spraying water at a couple girls in one corner of the pond. They squeal with a mixture of delight and faux-fear, running away from it giggling before returning to see what it will do next. Fish are rare to wash down into Babel and are usually gone within a few hours. The children will try to spend as much time with the strange water-dweller, inventing stories and theories as to where it came from, fabricating intricate tales of its journey.

The fish eventually calms down to accept its new name, bestowed it by its audience; Arsalan, the fish from the far west.  
' _He must have come all the way from the Western Wall. Or the Western 99 Caverns!'  
_ His journey has been long and arduous, fraught with many dangers along the way to get here.  
' _He lost his people to a great current, and now he seeks them out! Too bad he is stuck in our pond.'_

They spend the day making him an honorary member of their society, like an esteemed pet, until the game warden comes to retrieve the wayward fish and take him to a different place up above, beyond the Gravity Wastes. Even though they're sad to see him go, the children still continue to make stories.

Arsalan, the Great Western Fish, is not forgotten so easily.

* * *

 **A/N** : Some fun Babel-building. Kids and foreign objects are always great fun to touch on.


	8. 008 Race

She should be scouting ahead for the other three, but she simply can't take her eyes off the Slugterranean Express engine roaring its way down the tracks now. Through the red eye-lenses of the mask, she can pick up the otherwise-invisible identification number near the tail-end of it.

She knows the number like she knows her own breath. Needless to say, it distracts her. She should have the self-control necessary to ignore it, but she can't. She knows she can't, knowing what that engine contains. It has been a few weeks, she knows, and lately she has heard that he has been in a mood.

Ruin chirps in his usual apprehension, already knowing what the next few moments will contain. He hunkers against the crook of her neck, his brother and sister contained in two of three gated tubes at her waist adding their own voices to it. Reign sounds encouraging, as he always does, the little spitfire. Nepo seconds Ruin's questioning. Still, all three know that regardless of what they think, their handler is a woman of her own will.

It is her last comfort to know she has that amount of control over her own life.

A quick glance is given over her shoulder, assessing how far back the other three are before determining she can change course just long enough to at least assure him that she is alive. He probably already knows she hasn't keeled over yet, but it's always better to check in the flesh.

 _Bucephalus'_ systems are checked briefly, a switch on the dash flicked. The Express is already far ahead now; it's going to take some extra power to catch up to it. The throttle is rocked forward, the old engine kicking in and taking fuel. The Warhorse gives a roar of its own, like a sleeping dragon rudely awakened, before launching forward down the rise.

STL-1s were, and still are, superior in all-terrain capabilities. Really, the only thing it is still superior to with newer models. Down the uneven hill-face toward the flatland below, _Bucephalus_ navigates and assesses perfectly, automatically adjusting shocks and joints across the rocky unstable path as needed to resume as smooth a ride down as possible. She barely feels the shift from rocky high-ground into the smooth plains.

The old Warhorse isn't too fast, even with the added fuel boost. His voice is loud, echoing around the vast chambers with each pull from the fuel tanks. He is barely fast enough to draw even a little ground against the considerably newer Express engine they're trying to catch. STL-1s, after all, were originally built for raw power, not for speed.

The antiquated machine still manages to pull closer and soon enough, she can see the identification number clearly again. A few Blakkguard are stationed up top, almost drawing weapons until one of them recognizes her by the sound of the mech roaring again beneath her, pulling still more fuel from the tank. She should be rationing that, the realization hits her. Pulling up along the back flank of the rumbling engine, she flicks that switch again and the old engine cuts, leaving the new one run by the core to take over. She hates it; it has very little power behind it, just enough to move the old beast.

The Express engine starts pulling away again, bit by bit, but by now she has it. When it rolls to a squealing stop some ways down the track, she can lay off a bit off the throttle. The amount of residual energy and the continued momentum of the Warhorse still carry it with a small amount of steering around the side of the engine proper.

He emerges from the confines, tall and otherwise intimidating. Eyes snap to one side in acknowledgement of the grumbling _Bucephalus_. No words are spoken as she wafts passed him, keeping easy control on the old beast beneath her. A light canter, she can feel those green eyes following her movement, trailing the arch she makes without breaking his stride. By now, those in his direct employ know her; she is no threat, just an oddity.

Back around the front of the steaming engine, hearing the metal monster breathe with each intake of cooling air, aiming back the way she came. She can feel his eyes again, watching after her until she is out of sight. He knows why she is there; there is a faint assurance in that glance. He knows she is impulsive, reckless. To know she has come to him, even briefly, in one piece is always good news.

Her task completed, she aims back to her starting point. She expects a stern reprimand when she resumes her scouting, if anything for the fuel used in the excursion.

* * *

 **A/N** : Longest one so far, and surprisesurprise, it's IndustRev.

That's practically obligatory in any set at this point, really.


	9. 009 Poor

He always hates to see those who are barely making a living, if at all. Familial ties are his thing, and he is empathetic to those most in need.

 _What if your sisters were in this position?  
Do you turn your eye and look away?  
Do you try to help them?  
What will you do, Oberon. Remember how Mama would handle it._

He's doing his best to help them, even though they don't know who he is. Frequently, he forgets he is no longer in the Reach, and forgets that his long prestigious title is lost to these folk. Still he tries, and regularly drags Death along for the ride.

Brothers on a mission, despite one being sickness and the other … well … death. At least Death looks and acts like someone from their Southern Caverns. It makes him familiar, even if outlandish, and it calms those who are suspicious.

While they usually ride on to the next cavern and city, the trail is cold and War has left to do what she does to garner necessary information, like any good general should. Famine repairs and maintains the old mechs that are still there, minus _Bucephalus_ , which has been taken halfway across the Western 99 to the Citadel. Which leaves the two unlikely brothers to calm their own antsy tendencies and help the stricken.

 _What good is a fortune if you can't use it to do something right._

* * *

 **A/N** : Admittedly, I struggled just a bit on this one… It kinda goes all over the place.


	10. 010 Rich

Along the vaulted ceiling carefully carved eons before, along the variegated walls of interchanging silvers and brown-blacks, the Lumino Ore begins to brighten. It signifies the day is beginning in Babel.

In the dimmer hours of morning, the first signs of life start to show. Miners, farmers, those who work and maintain the industrial district far below. All start to emerge from homes in the walls and make their way to their designated places in the unusual cavern. They will be long into work before the rest of their folk wake.

At half light, the shopkeepers for the commercial district begin to stir, opening doors and setting up displays for daily sales. Things to catch the eye and draw in income. Tiny Slugs hidden around the islands start waking, chirping at one another to establish who is whom and where they hide. Fandangos keep to the trees and rare large mushrooms used for landscaping, making the upper-cavern standard vocabulary of squeaks and squawks and chirps. They are joined briefly by the sing-song listing voices of the local Lamassu Slugs gathered in nests in the walls and across the fountains. The odd little creatures arrive from the magnet, gliding to their daily resting places for basking and pettings that will inevitably come.

Full flare of daylight comes with a chime and a glitter, those who live within The Pit arriving to the socials and shops for their daily errands and obligations. The schools are in full swing before then, classes out and about or within designated spaces. All manner of education and degrees mingle with one another, with the other folk. Vibrant silks and satins shimmer in the morning light, combined with a waver of humidity in the air and accented with precious metals and gemstones to dream of. Even those considered poor are lavishly dressed and decorated, jewelry prevalent in both men and women, children and adults. No one is made to not look the part.

The open-air markets are open and in full swing before the morning concludes, offering foreign materials brought from caverns outside theirs. Spices, textiles, and baubles are among many other goods and services sold beneath colorful tents across the topmost islands suspended over The Pit. Bathhouses fill to the brim by high-noon, offering a place of relaxation for social gatherings. Lamassu tend to follow patrons in and out, offering their calming sedating effect to all who require it.

Laughter and chatter is as music, a soundtrack to the lives of the people that make it great. It is added to by the wordless tune of the magnet ever-playing in the undertone, the beat droned out by the twin waterfalls. A sense of community lays over the whole, a collective mindset of pleasant familiarity.

By the time evening rolls around and shops begin to close, inhabitants all come together to see one another home safely, to help close shops or take apart booths in the market for the night. Those in the agriculture and industrial always return last when the Lumino starts to grow its dimmest for the night. The final calls of Slugs sound, Fandangos curling in their foliage-hidden nests, Lamassu flitting back to their dens in the magnet. An eerie quiet falls across The Pit, the magnet singing and the cascades pounding away little more than consistent white noise to play in the background. It will start again in the morning.

Not all wealth is silver and gold. For Babel, her wealth is her people, rich and vibrant in her otherwise dreary grey walls.

* * *

 **A/N** : Milestone! Completed the first ten!

Figured Babel could steal away with this one. Summarized daily routines and all.


	11. 011 Name

Even though the title has been passed to her son, she is still known as and called 'War'. No one knows her name anymore. This is just such a hazard of being the title.

She trades the mask for accenting powdered color and painted lips, the big roaring Warhorse for a smaller less-powerful model. She trades the armor and leathers for fine silks and jewels. She changes everything … but her name.

She returns to the Citadel a woman without obligations, without alliances. Her son carries her previous loyalties, as all Wars have done in the past. She can only pledge fidelity to the child's father. She has political loyalties only to herself.

The factories and company are signed off to her eldest, Thaddius looks much older than when she left him. She's sure she looks older to him, as well, but it is in the way those eyes still light behind to see her again that betrays he has not forgotten her, in the least. Their reunion is small and intimate, missed embraces and reacquainting one another's presence to the other.

Greetings are given, verbal and non, before he asks, "What is your name?"

She almost tells him 'War'.

She almost gives him the name he has called her by for decades. The name she was forced to remember in place of the one bestowed her at her birth. She realizes it is the birthname he has requested. Thaddius has been respectful of her customs and titles for almost thirty years now. It is only fair, she concludes, that after all is said and done, he should know her name.

If only she could remember it herself.

Her jaw flounders halfway through the motion to tell him her title, that which is no longer her title. No noise is issued forth, but she can see by the way one brow quirks on his face that he knows she has forgotten. No; not forgotten. Simply replaced.

War minds are like bear traps; they hold memories and details no human being could ever remember. Just because it is locked away in the past does not mean she has forgotten it. It just means it is out of reach. He is patient as she thinks, processes. Searches her memory.

Everyone in the Reach, even outside her jurisdiction, calls her _War_.  
Everyone in every cavern, every territory she has ever passed through calls her _War_.  
In Babel, she is _War_. In Slagrock, she is _War_.

She knows it is in there, somewhere. She knows she has to trek through almost thirty-five, forty years of her life to find it. Everywhere she looks, everything she filters through. Her identity is not hers. Is she really so different now?

 _Who am I?_

Every twisting corridor, every door opened in the mental space. Every window checked, all the dusty shelves scoured. Upstairs, downstairs, attics and basements in her mind. Boxes and trunks metaphorically rifled through. She takes a step back and it is evident on her face to him now.

She is beginning to panic. Everywhere she turns, everywhere she looks to. It's only _War_. It hits like a brick, the realization that she is _not_ a human being. She is only a new face to a single entity and nothing more.

A copy, a clone.  
Carefully bred, carefully honed.  
A weapon, a figurehead.  
 _Not_ a person.

She is only, forever and always, **War**.

She wants to cry, but can't. That was stripped from her and the panic in place of not remembering, digging through memories down to the last detail, replaces the actual _need_ to weep. Trying to remember _every_ voice, _every_ aspect of everyone she has ever had contact with.

 **Someone** _must have used it_ **somewhere**!

Almost like an answer, it hits. A peal, like a bell, on a rumbling and familiar voice. She hasn't heard that voice in so long.

Passed the very first addressing as **War**.  
Passed all the beatings, all the training.  
Passed Mama losing her mind, and her life, to the magnet.  
She is watching the 'faeries' on the ceiling.

 _She points up to the ceiling in the entry hall. Above the crystal chandelier with its lights in full blaze, a faint breeze of displaced air wafting through open windows and jingling the crystal drops on the wrought iron frame above. Light reflections play through the faceted crystal, across the ceiling and walls and floor.  
Papa is there, sitting on the stairs beneath the landing, that soft smile on his face as she cries, "Look, Papa! Faeries! The faeries are playing!"  
He chuckles, low and warm. Pale eyes direct from the dancing lights to the little girl on the landing. The training has started, but it has not yet settled. She is still small and innocent, though that will be gone before the next year.  
"And that is why you are Fae. You belong with the faeries, don't you."  
_

The name rings in her ears, residual with that dangerously charming smile. It takes a single moment to process it, Thaddius actually looks slightly worried at the distressed silence that took hold for a while. It is a moment longer for her to mentally sound it out and prepare herself for it. It still sounds so foreign, like it belongs elsewhere, and not to her.

" _Fae_." She pauses, drawing abyssal blue eyes to his red-ringed jade to try and help solidify it. "Mein name … ist Fae."

A subdued look of satisfaction crosses his face before he looks as though contemplating it. His lips move silently, committing it to memory, before he draws a reply.

"…'Fae Blakk' does have a certain ring to it."

He hobbles off, the metal cane clacking on the floor to mark his exit. Her surprise at the statement gives him enough of a headstart before she follows after him to ask what he meant exactly by it.

To be honest, she doesn't need an explanation. She just likes to hear him try to explain it.

* * *

 **A/N** : I've been waiting to do this one, can you tell?

This one is summarized as 'War has an existential crisis' on AO3


	12. 012 Vault

This is sacred ground. Somewhere she doesn't have to be anyone of note.

The door to the fourth garage bay is hidden. None know where it is, but her and her mother. Not even Papa had known where it was. He was not allowed in here.

To her mother, the old war machine was something of a challenge, a comfort in her last days. She had hoped to finish the tank before her end. That hope fell through. It still lies partially dismantled in that hidden bay, but her daughter and protege still hasn't been able to finish it.

It's not that she doesn't know how. It's that her time is spent doing other things. It is on Famine land that the Warhorses are brought to rest. Famine families have always produced the mechanic, and their knowledge of the antiquated mecha horses is what is needed most.

Sometimes, maintenance on the heirloom rides takes very little time.  
Sometimes, it takes days.  
It consumes what little time she has, and cuts out the time she would need to work on the old tank in her private garage.

Famines have always been the emotionless ones, their faces flat and betraying very little. Most people take their apathy as rude detachment. It makes it hard to find acquaintances outside the four families.

Even though her face betrays nothing, Famine still feels. Usually, it is a depressive loneliness. She finds the cure to it in her garage. Through the hidden door, to the silent tank.

This is her space. Her quiet room. The place where she ceases to be and returns to a brief state of humanity, be it working on the old war beast or sleeping on it.  
This is sacred ground.


	13. 013 Crime

The boy was being hunted and he recognized it. Not by an animal from the wastes, but by his own. Human beings in this backwater cavern.

He was supposed to be keeping an eye out for Death's back; he wanted to liberate a half-dead potted plant from someone's front porch. Plague rolled his eyes. Death was an odd one and there were jokes between the elder and War about the quirky little Haitian being more plant than human being. He'd reprimand him later for it, since taking something that wasn't his was the very definition of 'crime'.

But the Siberian was easily distracted, and seeing a group of men starting to flicker out from the shadows was a little odd. Considering they were clean and sharp and very out of place in this dust-ridden town inhabited more or less by dusty farmers. And the kid walking down the middle of the central thoroughfare looking uneasily in windows every so often. He was no more than twelve, thirteen maybe, and nervous about something in his surroundings.

They were closing in like sharks on chum and the whole situation set the hair along his neck on end. Slowly, he descended from his vantage point while his Haitian partner wasn't looking, something in his instinct demanding he step in. His eye made a low whirring sound in his skull, sending him the necessary details; their Blasters' models and positions, their arsenals. He could take this bunch with his hands tied, he concluded, two-bit gangsters without proper affiliations.

He cracked his knuckles, charging the gauntlets on both hands with a twitch of his wrists. It was enough to catch attention, certainly, two of those at the back of the loose crowd turning about to gape at the mountainous Siberian. He did his best to put on a nice wide smile, though amiability on his face might have been warped a bit by how he actually felt.

"Vhat are vhe doing here?"

The smooth rumbling baritone drew attention from the others. One of them finally snapped from their shock with the typical spit, "None of your business, move along."

One of those who had first noticed him was chosen, a palm laid to his forehead. " _Dobroy nochi_ …" was heard before a snap and a crackle. A small jolt of electricity was released with another twitch of his wrist. Not enough to be fatal, but enough to leave the unfortunate other a twitching mess on the ground.

His attitude was casual and nonchalant when he responded. "It is my business now, da?" Another twitch of the spent gauntlet, a small whining noise as it began charging again. "Who vhants to try next?"

With a muttered order, the rest of them retreated. His face was a mask of smug satisfaction. The boy was staring at the twitching body they had left behind.

"Is he dead…?"

Siberian shrugged. "Not enough juice to kill him. He vhill twitch for a vhile."

A nod was given to that before the sounds of a woman yelling about a plant-stealing hooligan came from nowhere and Death was spotted running for his life across the thoroughfare some distance away, pot in hand. He was screaming something about letting plants die being inhumane and cruel treatment, followed by a frazzled older woman wielding a broom.

"If you excuse me, I dhink my friend is in need of some long-vhaited scolding…"

* * *

 **A/N** : Something dorky for another prompt that has me otherwise stumped…

death is a plant is official


	14. 014 Photograph

It's stared at him for years and years and countless years. It feels like centuries, it's been there. Knowing his father, it probably _has_ been there for centuries.

 _Sneering_ at him.  
 _Disapproving._  
 _Arrogant._

Father was always arrogant. It was something he passed on to his eldest son, even though Xerxes Blakk would never admit to it. He looks away from the massive painting in the main office.

It's scrutinizing him again. Looking over his shoulder and silently reprimanding him. For a second, he thinks he hears that thundering voice hissing that he's going to be working in the factories again if he doesn't shape up…

"I have succeeded you! Stop looking at me like that!" he roars, whirling on it. "I have earned this!"

He leaves the room, storming down the hall with longcoat flaring. Curt greetings are given to those who greet him. He doesn't mean to spit the venom on them. He is looking for someone in particular.

Neville is on the floor of Facility 3. He looks up nonchalantly as his boss stalks next to him, directing reports through the tablet without missing a beat.

"Yes, Xerxes?"

He comes to a swirling stop. "Is my brother back?"

"No, he just left. It'll be another few months, I'm sure, before we see him again." is the answer. "Is there something you need him specifically for, or can I help you out with it?"

"The portrait needs to go."

It comes out in a single string of words with no defined emphasis. Neville lifts a brow and looks sideways at the taller.

"Finally." he sighs. "I can help you with that here in one moment."

A sharp nod before he turns about again and stalks back toward the office. He is a little more pleasant now, a bit more approachable.

As promised, Neville is in the office shortly after Xerxes returns to its confines. He sets his tablet to one side, rolls up his sleeves. "Right, let's get this over with."

His right-hand's enthusiasm to help get rid of the horrid judging portrait causes his mood to lighten a bit, pulling off the longcoat and mantle and also rolling his sleeves. It takes some doing between the two of them, balancing on chairs and tables to pull the unwieldy portrait off the wall. Neville grumbles something about how he's pretty sure that the thing was made to be exactly like Thaddius; large, awkward, and absolutely difficult to work with.

"And judgmental of everything that isn't him…" Xerxes offers up.

They laugh at it, carrying the massive portrait slung between them out the doors, hiding it in a storage closet. It leaves a gaping hole in the balance of the room for a while. Eventually, Xerxes fills the space with a vining plant. He says it's for Marius' benefit when he comes to visit.

It swiftly gets out of hand because Xerxes Blakk has no idea how to properly prune and domesticate a climbing vine.

* * *

 **A/N** : Xerxes gets frustrated at his father's indirect staring…

It's not exactly a 'photograph', but I bet it's close enough to count.


	15. 015 Quill

She is winding bobbins. A repetitive task, keeping aging fingers nimble and spry, able to work as they did in her youth. Quick, unerring. It works, to a fault; there is only so much one can do to slow the progression of time and decay.

She has no idea where Thaddius managed to hobble his way to, only that he is simply absent, leaving her to her own tasks. He will return when he is ready. Even in his own creeping age, he is an intimidating monolith, and therefore he will suffer no intrusions.

The same cannot be said for her, another looming yet familiar presence appearing suddenly in the nearby doorway of her personal study.

He clears his throat before entering; Maurice is very much aware that crossing the threshold without announcement means he is little more than fair game. It's something he learned long ago, during her first pregnancy when it was just her and him in the Citadel. He lives not too far from his friend and old boss, still on friendly terms with the old Pseudobane's wife.

He bears a box now, long and thin and looking particularly unwieldy. At her acknowledgement, he enters, offering it to her. Before he can get a word out, she smirks and teases lightly; "I don't know vat T'addius vould t'ink, you giving me gifts like zis."

His lips purse. Maurice isn't normally one to have a sense of humor, especially at the expense of the towering industrialist out wandering wherever he is wont to. "It came to me, but it's not mine. From your son."

"Vhich one? I haf two."

"The youngest, I'm sure. Return sender is only 'War', and the last I remember, Xerxes never made it that far."

It's a bit of a sore spot, her own lips pursing now in turn. It's only fair, she poked him first. Her henna-stained hands come up, delicately taking hold of the parcel before bringing it down to her lap. Maurice stays nearby, curiosity taking hold despite him wanting to remain obviously indifferent. He has always had a hand in the family in one way or the other, and news from Marius are almost as rare as Xerxes having free time.

The tape is slit open with the tip of a knife; even old and retired, she carries a small arsenal always within reach for various and sundry reasons if not for obvious ones. The top is flipped open, packaging moved aside.

She recognizes it, it draws the memory back of it. Once-eager fingers are now apprehensive, moving forward with a sort of reverent fear of the thing within. Just longer than five feet, milky translucent like the quick of a fingernail. It's smooth to the touch, the grain obvious. Along its length, she knows the carved images and phrases in dialects unknown to anyone in the Western 99, but are familiar to those of the Outland Reach.

"What is it?"

Maurice snaps her out of the trance and she tries to recompose herself at it. It's a poor attempt, really. Her voice still wavers.

"It belongs to ze Creature." The emphasis on the name of the beast draws a questioning sort of silence out of her companion. "It ... it took mein face once. It took Marius' too."

Her hand reaches for a small slip of paper attached to the lid of the box. Unfolding it, Marius' quick scrawl details why the carved spine is in her hands:

 _To my mother:  
It is no more. We encountered it again. With one eye left and that failing, it was not hard to kill.  
It defaced you, it did the same to me and likely countless others. It took countless lives. Survival or not, it is defense and mercy that it met its end.  
Maira, of the Southern Coral Trolls, pinpointed the quills each that sliced us and had not just her clan, but many others, carve appropriate farewells to it as well as wards and well-wishes to you and me.  
I have sent yours to you. I will hang mine in Edelweiss when the magnet lets me back to it.  
The Outland Reach no longer suffers isolation from the rest of Slugterra._

The illegible signature concludes it. The whole thing is still surreal. The Creature of the Reach had terrorized the southern passes for so long, it seems almost empty to realize that it's gone.

She looks up at Maurice, still standing over her shoulder. She says it aloud to let it sink in, he stays to let her sink it in as much as she possibly needs to.

"It's gone..."

* * *

 **A/N** : Kind of a mix of characters, not just centering around one.  
Focus was the Creature of the Reach, since that was the only thing that came to mind when I saw 'Quill'.


	16. 016 Punch

That one whistle echoes through the pass, low to high. Everyone who frequents the southern passes knows what that means.

All four of the Horsemen are dispatched with this caravan, dropping their shipment of magnet plates with the appropriate clients. The journey to was simple, and the journey back was without much incident. Until now, when the blur of powder blue and faint streaks of light through the coral running for the Northern Reach follows that distinct signal.

The Creature has returned to the pass.

War is in charge here, when conflict is imminent. They may be able to outrun the gargantuan reptilian monster, but it's going to take a lot of perfect timing. He orders the caravan ahead at a dead run, dropping back as the transport-drivers throw their throttles forward, the roar of engines and uneven thudding of mechabeast footfalls and rolling of the cart wheels bringing the noise of urgency to the region.

He notices that outside of man-made noise, the rest of the expansive forest is eerily quiet. No chirping Slugs, or the odd cave-bird. No routing rodents or scrounging land-beasts. Nothing makes a noise.

Except them.

The sound of the caravan fleeing for safe purchase out of the pass and into the Reach has attracted the enormous predator, its entire bulk crashing with the sound reminiscent of shattering ceramic through the coral trees into the pass behind them. It has waited to this point to light up, patches of white-blue luminescence appearing from head to tail. It is accompanied by a high-pitching whining noise, the entire pass and thensome cast in blinding light and unsettling pitch-black shadows. It utters a single warcry, under-bite jaws gaping open and letting loose a deafening roar, before it launches forward.

The ground rumbles beneath it, and he notices with a glance over his shoulder that it keeps its head turned to the right facing mostly forward. The left eye is milky and lifeless, and he can tell that the right one is having issues focusing. Perception has likely been completely off for it since their last encounter and that makes hunting difficult. It _is_ looking a bit thinner than he last remembers.

The bright golden eye finds him. He sees it in the next look toward it to assess its position and distance. It remembers him. He took its left eye when it tore his face open. Or rather, the Ghoul did it, but it used him as avatar and he was left with the scar to prove it, gouging over his own left eye.

 _"_ _An eye for an eye makes the world go blind, but I think it's an improvement on you."_

The distance they put between them and it is closing fast, its longer strides carrying it easily closer. Thankfully for the rest of the caravan, it seems to completely focus on War. He's got to use it to his advantage, buy the rest of them some time. _Bucephalus_ is braked suddenly, the handlebars turned sharply to swing the heavy armored warhorse around. The engine idles as he stares down the immense Creature, light and shadow shifting around him on its approach like a surrealist's painted landscape.

"Allo, old friend." he mutters toward it over the sound of its heavy advance and screaming whine of the vents along its back. "Just like old times, ja?"

Gloved hand at the throttle creaks as he grips it, readying to turn it to full. One of them is going to fall, he knows this and is ready for it. He is concentrating so hard on waiting for the right moment to charge he doesn't hear the other two STL-1s roar up beside him. Not until Death speaks, dark eyes glittering.

"Lookin' a bit thin, _wi_?" She looks over her fellow toward Plague, on the other side. "Whatchu t'ink? We fin'lly b'puttin' an end t'all t'is?"

Plague assesses the slowing Creature before giving a sharp nod. "Da." He looks toward their third Horseman, an odd smirk crossing his face. "Vhat about you, War. You have had dealings vhit' dhis t'ing before."

"It ist looking like it is starving. Vould be best ve put it out of its misery, if it is unable to eat, zat's cruel."

A silent agreement, nods shared between childhood friends bound by duty and family. "For the good of the Reach."

The roar of three engines joins another roaring call from the Creature once it's in range, though it looks mildly confused when its prey runs at it. The quills that cover its body stand outward in alarm and turn bright colors at the tips, a sign of threat and distress.

They move in sync, three warriors born and trained to know what the others are thinking. Avoiding the huge trunk-like legs, War issues what he remembers of his debilitating inflictions to the monster reptile to his comrades; "It is blind on ze left side. Zat ist your best shot. I vill try to get its head low enough to finish it."

Waves of acknowledgements, coordinates punched into the old computer on their mechs in unison to send the old steeds at a safe distance from the skirmish to take place; they will sit and idle until retrieved. They are practiced as one, work as a single entity with multiple bodies, dismounting in one fluid movement and hitting the ground running.

Death takes its left side, as she's the better shot with the sling. Plague takes the right, since he can take the heavier hits if dealt. War aims for one of its spine-ridden hindlegs, readying to climb onto its back.

Between the efforts of the Horsemen on the ground, the Creature is drawn back and forth in the tight pass space between the coral trees, its long and sinuous reptilian body breaking and flinging chunks of the age-old natural structures all around. It keeps lit, which causes some small issue with direction, and blinds War considerably in his ascension.

Those on the ground make sure to keep it agitated and confused, all the while avoiding the deadly quills that strategically litter its body. Claws and feet are easier to dodge than those. They all know what they can do, what they are capable of; War and his mother can attest and show proof of what a simple graze of a sharp tip can do to a body.

The fight on the ground is only slightly easier than the trek across the Creature's broad back. War realizes this on reaching it, a minefield of super-heated blinding pathways and the occasional geyser of searing air. He says a small blessing to any of the many gods listening that the beast is massive enough that he can get his footing easier when it moves side to side, tangling itself up against and among the coral towers surrounding it.

By now, it understands the tables are turning and that it is no longer in control. The realization draws from it a strangled distressed whimper, and its shift from offensive to defensive draws its attention now to the faint displacement of quills along its great neck. It shakes once, roaring and trying to heat its body up further in an attempt to burn its unlucky passenger off. The whining gets louder, the light brighter until it causes tears to look directly at it.

Unfortunately for it, War keeps himself wedged between several of the spines to keep hold. In the break before it tries again, he makes the most of his time and continues upward, keeping himself from touching the skin of the neck as much as possible. He can feel the heat wafting off it, unbearable even without direct contact.

The Creature is successful the fourth time it shakes its head and neck, launching the broad body upward into the air. The great jaws open, sharp teeth combined with putrid breath greeting him as he reaches his zenith and begins the descent.

Far below on the ground, he catches sight of Death covering her mouth in a shocked fear for their juggernaut's well-being. Plague is momentarily stunned from moving before running forward with sling loaded and swinging. The Hop Rock does no damage to the mammoth reptile, but it certainly catches its attention. The head moves, the jaws closing in preparation for the roaring retaliation. It is all War needs.

The lashknives are pulled free, the switch on one of the long silver batons unleashed. As he falls even with the muzzle, the thin yet strong wire flies out of its casing, whirring on the spindle. The lance-head at the tip buries itself into the tender flesh behind one nostril.

It feels _that_ , squealing in pain, a noise he remembers well and secretly relishes. The head jerks back, giving him more leverage to release the wire tether to nearly full length and swing beneath its chin and up the other side. The second knife is unleashed, finding the same anchor on the opposite side of the first.

The Creature lashes its head about, tries to lift a claw to scratch its nose only to be hit just beneath the right eye with a Tazerling. Two loops of the dual wires pulled taut with his weight on the other side ... when the beast still opens its mouth in a pitiful attempt to get at the dangling annoyance. He swings to one side to avoid it, the thin wire cutting deep into the skin of its muzzle. It slices into one of its bioluminescent patches, a shriek of hot air suddenly released and sending the monster into fits of agony.

He pulls hard on the wires, hoping to cut deeper, but the unsteady flinging about beneath the writhing reptilian and his own small weight compared to his opponent's skin otherwise make it considerably more difficult. He cannot let go, too far above the ground and with the Creature whipping its head around, there is no telling where he might end up.

"...I've had better ideas..."

The thought crosses his mind in time to feel a particularly heavier weight grasp him around the waist, another pair of large long-fingered hands wrapping around his. One of the Coral Trolls has come from nowhere to add weight to the tether. More appear, seemingly from thin air around them. Some with hooked cables, some grasping onto the dangling War to add more weight to the jaw tethers.

The Creature is overwhelmed now and panicking further. It thrashes about, trying to take its growing crowd of assailants down with talon and quill and bulk. A few get scratched in the attempt, some deeply and some shallowly.

So far, War has counted up to nine entire clans who have come to their aid. Their company is the size of a small army, and a small army is what it will take to bring the Creature of the Reach down.

Heavy iron hooks on the end of climbing cables are tossed and ripped down, puncturing the thinner membrane around the lighting patches across the beast. Shrieking rents the air, combined with the screech of distressed pain from the monster. It is starting to stagger, but continues with a desperate fervor to release itself of its attackers. It only serves to tangle it more in the piercing tethers.

By now, it can no longer open its mouth, close to sixty Trolls attached to the wires and living plumbob beneath it. The thin metal is sticky with running blood and whatever natural chemical makes the beast light up when it heats its body up. War is completely obscured beneath tattooed powder-blue bodies. Death and Plague are lending a hand to the ground crews.

The Creature's fight is not long to last with its prior weakened state and eventually, they pull it down with several good heaves. It hits the ground with a hard shake; sometime later in the week, several cavern systems closest to the passes will ask if they suffered an earthquake. Its breathing is labored, shallow. They watch it carefully and keep the tethers tight around its maw as a precaution.

It only stays for a little more than twenty minutes, watching the face it marred years prior before the golden eye glazes over and half closes. The chest stops rising and it relaxes in death.

* * *

 **A/N** : A prequel to the last prompt.

 **Punch:** _To strike; To retaliate_

A bit late, but I was drunk last night and tried writing.  
Hilarious results, but wow I can't do much of anything while drunk except draw really well. So I scrapped the last draft and restarted it tonight/last night.  
Longest one so far and it's actually NOT IndustRev! HUZZAH!  
Now to get to work on 17…

Saying it now; the Fifteenth Legacy Horsemen is the age of 'Mar':  
-Marius  
-Marie  
-Markus

And then Famine went off on a weird tangent and named her daughter Natasha. Dammit Famine, we were supposed to have a theme going and you ruined it.

Written to Woodkid's _Run Boy Run_


	17. 017 X-Ray

He can see it in her, as easily as he sees Neville tapping away at the tablet to his right.

The younger assistant is inputting details as to the reports and analysis given by maintenance crews at the monorail stop in this cavern. Something went haywire, though nothing too severe that cannot be fixed. No one was hurt, nothing was gratuitously destroyed. This is not an acquisition visit.

Still, Blakk Industries crews always gather attention, regardless of intent. Even moreso when the young engineer who owns the company is in attendance. However, this one in a small crowd of curious onlookers has caught his attention.

He can't quite explain why, really. She's apprehensive, nervous. Not like those around her. She notices him looking, tries to divert her gaze. Now _he's_ curious.

He takes a few steps back from Neville, trying to stay out of the other's range of sight to sneak away. It's a fine display of control, nothing so much as lifted by the displaced air. No fluttering coat or mantle. He simply disappears from view as though he had never been there.

The continued activity and dispersal of the maintenance crews and technicians keeps Neville from even noticing his superior is missing from his side. His absence won't be noticed for some time yet. He slips through that small crowd like a shadow, noiseless and unintrusive, until he stands next to the girl.

"I know what you're really doing here. We'll have construction crews here in a little while, won't we."

She already knows he's there, and that surprises him maybe a bit. Not enough to show. But it's more than obvious she knows too other reasons for the Industries' presence. One monorail crack isn't enough to bring five entire crews out. That only needs one or two.

"So." he purrs, a rumble deep in his chest. "You know about the rails leading south from here Father abandoned some decades ago then."

"There are people living along those rails."

"They will move, one way or the other." He offers up that smile. Charming, disarming, altogether _sinister_. "That route is one of many abandoned that should never have been. I need it."

"And what of those living on it?"

"They are trespassing on land owned by Blakk Industries. It's time to evict the rabble, as it were."

She looks up at him, a horrified defiance spreading on her pretty face. "You're just like your father was."

"Oh, I haven't heard _that_ one before…" The sarcasm is thick, dripping out of the air to the point one can almost feel it. "But yes, guilty as charged. But, I could tell just by looking at _you_ from afar, you knew that already."

"Thaddius Blakk trusted no one. But he debuted you. Which means he had a strong hand of influence on you."

"Oh yes. But you see, just because Father hand-raised me to the company, doesn't mean I have no essence of _Mother_ in me."

Her look of a strange angry confusion causes that fanged grin to grow wider. It is counterpointed by a chuckle to raise hairs; though his face is nothing like his sire, that laugh could confuse anyone into believing the elder Blakk was standing among them. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

He finishes with, "You're not the first to not know Mother. And certainly not the last. But remember one thing; Father _chose_ my mother because she is the practiced _brutality_ to match his _violence_."

"You're all monsters." she hisses back at him.

The chuckle dies away a bit, but it's still evident in the undertone of his voice. "You. Are rare. Don't change."

"Xerxes!" Neville's voice breaks the brief conversation, looking toward the considerably taller young Blakk. "Quit bothering the locals! I need you to look over these reports."

He shrugs, wafting back through his small audience toward where his assistant is holding out the tablet. Neville purses his lips, looking back over behind his friend to where he was standing. The girl before is gone. "What was that about? We have work to do, this is no time to socialize."

Xerxes chuckles again, gloved hand taking hold of the proffered tablet and starting to skim over the contents that greet him. "Nothing, really. Just a little girl who can see riiiight through me."

* * *

 **A/N** : Sat and thought on this for a bit, decided to use Tumblr's addictedtoslugterra's OC for it.

and probably got it all wrong sorry

Have something so non-canon it hurts, since I doubt Mikayla and Xerxes would ever really have interactions. We'll call it a universal burp.

Now, to try and catch up on these things, dammit!


	18. 018 Railroad

It's been fairly quiet. While the silence was good at the start, now it's starting to worry Neville.

Xerxes has locked himself into his labs for the better part of a week and a half, and only a week ago, there were no sounds coming from behind the doors at all. Of course, Neville has been monitoring things closely, and has been relieved to see that at least the kitchen staff is able to get in and out.

But it has been two days since he saw anyone enter or exit, and now it's starting to get really worrying. He decides to check up on his friend, steeling himself up for the sight that can meet him beyond the double doors.

He almost expects the knobs to be locked, pushing down on the lever with little more than a click before the door swings wide open. The room beyond is cluttered, as to be expected with the eccentric individual who resides in the labyrinth of half-built pieces and parts, plans plastered on the walls and ceiling with spec piles to the left and right.

He eases his way between two large curving monstrosities made completely by welded metal plating, muttering, "How he can find anything in this mess…"

He doesn't finish it verbally, seeing the crouched figure he's been searching for at one of the work tables in the back. Much better than the last time he had to come crawling into the room to find the taller Blakk. At least he's upright this time.

A hand reaches out carefully to tap the shoulder of the young engineer, testing to see if he's lucid or not. Xerxes whirls on him, pulling the dying wisps of smoke from a cigarette in the tray nearby in the sudden movement. Neville starts at the sudden movement and at his superior's appearance.

His eyes are red, the bags beneath them more prominent than usual. He hasn't shaved, and likely hasn't showered, in the time he's been in here; if he didn't know him personally, Neville could have mistaken the disheveled mess of a man for a vagabond sneaking in.

There is a moment of stunned silence, the younger having pulled his trusty tablet up to shield the lower half of his face and neck, watching the bottomless blue eyes blink slowly. It's a tense moment, though it only lasts until those eyes start sparkling. The unbridled half-tired joy in those eyes is almost contagious. To be honest, Neville knows that is what makes Xerxes Blakk dangerous; his ambition and enthusiasm is easily caught by people.

He springs up, towering over his assistant, who lets out a startled cry at the sudden movement. Hands grip the shorter's shoulders, pulling him in close enough that Neville can smell the residual cigarette smoke and the stale coffee on his breath.

"…I need to make a railroad." he says before darting for the doors out to the rest of the Citadel.

Neville isn't far behind, dodging artfully around the scattered half-finished projects to catch his taller companion. "But your father already _made_ the railroads! You're improving them, remember?"

Xerxes is obviously sleep-walking. That much is evident when he stops and stumble-twirls about to face the other. "No. No, you don't understand. I _need_ to make a railroad."

While he's sure there is a reason Xerxes has reiterated this, the thought is unclear to Neville, who only shouts as the elder disappears around a corner, "Adam! He's sleepwalking again!"

Even through the twisting labyrinth that is the Citadel's inner halls, he knows the next corridor is the way to the kitchens. It only solidifies when a loud resounding kabong! sounds from around the corner, a decently-large chef holding a frying pan and standing over the crumpled form of the young Blakk coming into view.

"In lieu of his brother not being here, you are a life-saver." Neville tells Adam. "I'll see your next pay raise comes a bit sooner if you help me get him to his shower."

* * *

 **A/N** : More Xerxes shenanigans. Xerxes sleepwalking is a dangerous thing.

Was going to try to sneak Maurice in this one, but decided that would be too out of place. It works as is, though, so not too worried.  
And I am caught up. Will hit 19 tomorrow morning.


	19. 019 Wreck

Her eyes are dead.

He sees it the instant she appears before him, striding with an air of faux confidence. The clicking of her braces on the marble floor only serves to show that every move now is mechanical, a heartbeat to the engine that is the embodiment therein of conflict, of war. There is nothing fluid in her, her face devoid of emotion. The cigarette in her lips wanes away, she extinguishes it, drops the dead butt into a small pouch at her side, pulls out and lights another.

She is little more than a machine, dead to the world with glazed eyes and no wit to speak of.

He understands. She has added to her body count in a way that she deems against her own twisted morals. While rare, it happens. And it always breaks her.

He knows the training she has endured, knows she is not allowed to show emotion at this time. Knows she cannot be human at this moment. He has seen it in action, used against him multiple times. If anyone in her life currently understands the turmoil beneath the surface, kept in check by clove-stick after burning clove, it is him.

His lips purse. While usually miffed at being interrupted from his work, this is a rare moment. Papers and plans are put aside carelessly, the usual meticulousness put aside for this. Her mental health is currently more important than a few basic redlines for restructuring the Slugterran Express. The current will still be fine for the few hours he sacrifices here.

He stalks forward, toward the machine, one arm embracing her about the waist to keep her steady, the other's fingers plucking the smoking cigarette from her lips. It takes a minute or two for her to process that she is no longer drawing smoke or inhaling it. Her coping mechanism has been breached. It is barely a minute longer before he feels the shift of the cope.

Rigid body gives way to a faint tremor, her breath starting to speed up. Without the cigarette in her mouth to give her repetitive coping, she loses that. There is no inhale or exhale to center around it in uniform.

Blue meets green. He's calm, stable in this crucial point of the shift. Maintaining eye contact to let her know she still exists, to remind her of his support. He sees the break happen there.

Her eyes glint and shimmer again, lose the haze, and begin to water. Her chest heaves, face contorts in the act of receiving emotion. Her restraint is gone from her, she loses the tether that hides it all from the world.

Within seconds, it is complete. Her legs have buckled, he guides them both down to sit on the floor. He hasn't let go of her yet, letting her cling to him and move through the stages of uncontrollable weeping. She is an atrocity, and that he is still there makes her feel less of it.

But she is still human.  
She is still too young to lose her emotions.

* * *

 **A/N** : Was unsure what to do for this at first. But then jumped back on my IndustRev wagon and got pummeled by a moment of angst. Honestly, these two don't have enough of it. So have a little bit of it.


	20. 020 Coin

It sparkles dimly in the light, tarnished and battered gold token stamped with the image of the Faravahar on one side, the face of Zoroaster imprinted on the other.

He scrutinizes the entirety of the piece, forward and back, maneuvers it so its side faces him as he turns it slowly. The number that eventually shows is faded and worn; this currency has passed through many hands, and has likely seen many places along the Eastern Wall.

The minter determines that it is time to retire the old currency, writing in his ledger the number on the side of the coin. He will write a new number next to it later, when it sees new life, a difference in circulation.

The presses and molds have since been updated. It is good when old coins come back through; he can order them renewed. Down to the factory floor from his office above, whistling to one of the nearby technicians. The young lady looks up, moves the safety goggles from her eyes. She is covered in soot and sweating heavily, obviously one of the smelters. This is good; old coins must be melted back down to start.

"It's time to retire this one." he tells her from the catwalk to his lofted office, flicking the coin toward her.

She catches it, looks it over. "This one's from four circulations ago. I'll make sure it gets reprinted." she assures him before turning around toward the giant pots, bubbling viscous molten metal within thick protective walls.

It gives off an eerie red-gold glow, like a volcano, which is more or less what it is, only with metal instead of rock. She wishes the coin luck on its journey, climbs the stairs to a platform above, and flicks the little gold piece into the smelting pot. It disappears from view after a few moments, melting away into a concoction of its brothers of months passed.

The hanging pots arrive before too long, pulling melted metal from the vat and hauling it across the rails to the chutes, where they tilt and pour their cargo into the molds below. It takes some time for them to cool enough to be cracked out of their new shapes, sent through the washer. Excess metal is clipped and filed off, polishes applied to make it shine bright before it moves on.

At the end of the day, it returns to where it started. The minter's desk, polished and new. It is not the same coin that came through that early morning, bits and pieces of its old self and those of its brethren what came before and after. A mix, with a new face. Swirled together as something new and different.

He picks it up, changes a few tiny squares sporting numbers, heating the plate up a bit before driving it into the side ridge of the new coin, crisp and easily seen now, a new identity to match its face. He writes the number down on the ledger, next to an old number. With a nod, he places the freshly recycled coin into a bag with others of its batch, ready to recirculate the Eastern Wall and thensome.

* * *

 **A/N** : Another milestone; 20 prompts completed! Next one is 25, a quarter done of the whole. Decided milestones will feature some worldbuilding tidbits from Babel and the Eastern Wall, or the whole of the Outland Reach, depending.

In this case, minting currency for their area and jurisdiction, since the mint being in Babel is probably the best place for it; not only is Babel the center of the Eastern Wall Territories, who wants to fight the magnet for that prize. Seriously, that thing is freaky, and it'll probably win that far down into its depths, if you're not a native.

Admittedly, I have no idea how minting is done in the real world anymore; I was twelve when we toured the state mint and it's been a looooong time since then. So have Babel's way of minting instead.


	21. 021 Ice

_Bubonic_ has suffered a cracked hip joint, the need to leave the hulking mechs behind and venture off to find a place to replace it is necessary. With War scouting ahead and Plague and Death on the hunt for supplies, Famine goes it alone.

Russian cuts a neat figure in the fitted uniform, hiding easily the high hip and subtle limping gait. She can still feel intimidating and for the most part, the cold apathy that follows after her keeps people away from her. Or maybe it's that she is carrying the broken part, huge and heavy, like it is nothing. A woman with a blunt object and a calm emotionless face is nothing to cross.

She strides into the nearest parts shop, the owner behind the counter looking up. The crooked smirk that crosses his face falls slightly as she hefts the busted joint-piece onto the counter. There is no twitch of expression across her porcelain skin, a staring down instead as she tells him exactly what she needs.

"Do you have a Generation T'ree Heavy left back hip joint for a Generation Two STL-1, or similar Heavy make."

It is a demand, not a request. That grin crosses his face again, but she can see the way he glazes over a bit at the model of mech it is for.

"Yeah, I think we've got something like this in the back." he assures her, picking up the part she has brought with some small amount of effort; it's a Generation Six part, but that was still when they were cast in iron. It is not by any means a lightweight piece.

He disappears with it for a time, returning later with something similar and the original part as well. Both are placed on the counter, he gives her a wink. "You can have it for free if you give me a smile, sweetie." he purrs out.

He thinks he has her, but her mind is on the new piece in front of her. Long delicate fingers, calloused and stained from mechanic's work, grip hold of the joint purposefully and lift it, testing its weight, then checking for the identification numbers. It isn't long before she drops it back on the counter and stares directly into the kid's face, getting uncomfortably close. By now, he is feeling nervous and unsettled, instead of confident, eyes darting to the side uneasily.

"I asked for Heavy, you gave me Generation Nine Luxury." She shoves the piece back across the counter, though her face remains still uncreased in her annoyance. "Take it back and get me dhe correct part I asked for, boy. Or I vhill do it myself."

Her essence makes her intimidating, her sheer being seeming to grow larger than it is and towering over the top of the shrinking employee stuck behind the counter. With a hurried and quiet, "Yes ma'am", he snatches the joint piece and hurries into the back. Her eyes watch him go, flat to those who do not look closely.

She stares daggers and unforgiving ice after him, intolerant to any who take her buxom frame and pretty doll-like features as ignorance to her craft.

* * *

 **A/N** : Famine is also generally annoyed by flirters and cat-callers.  
Ice is always a good prompt for her; reminiscent of those cold dreading Russian winters. Of which she is a good embodiment.

Just because she doesn't fight like the others doesn't mean she can't take care of herself, in her own way.


	22. 022 Truck

He knows none of their caravans have been out this far west. Usually, they stay nearer the central systems of the Western 99. He can tell by the way the shopkeep is staring at the gold bangle he offers in exchange for another piece of equally fine jewelry on the wall behind the other. It is for Ameli, who has asked nicely for her big brother to bring her something from the Western 99.

The gold piece is wrought by Babelan hands, formed in intricate motif into the cavern-symbolic Faravahar. It is studded uniformly with small precious gems to make it glimmer and shine, as all Babelan jewelry is. The jeweler turns it over, around and around, scrutinizing it with a careful expert eye.

"It's pretty." he says at last, after some critical silence. "But tell me why I should trade this for that piece."

He points to the bangle in question, of relatively simple design though with subtle engraved motifs in fine detail. It looks plain from far off, but the delicate floral vines carved with careful hand into the polished surface are numerous and seen close-up. Plague saw it and knew instantly his littlest sister should have it for her upcoming birthday.

He has stamped coins made of gold, but has learned the hard way that most places in the Western 99 will not accept such payment. The jeweler is no exception, and therefore, he opts to barter for the piece instead. One piece of detailed handwork foreign to the area, for another of equal design that reminds him dearly of his sister.

He smiles amiably, or tries to. He is a monolith of a creature and even at his visual friendliest, most folk are intimidated by him.

"Because, friend. Dhis is from dhe Outland Reach. You can sell it back to people for a fortune on dhat detail alone, da?" he offers, low thundering voice rumbling out his answer.

He receives a small snort of derision. "That's a lie, no one lives out there. That's all wasteland."

The jeweler's answer will not sway him from the task at hand, though somewhere deep inside, he wishes he had Death or War to help him maneuver through this. His social interactions can get quite awkward and he might lose a chance to get Ameli what she requested of him; something new and foreign to wear with her new _lehenga_ , the one Papa made for her special thirteenth birthday. She is a young woman now, according to Babelan society.

"How vhell do you know dhese 99 Caverns?"

"Seen 'em all."

"Have you ever seen dhis symbol here as a part of a cavern?"

"Hmph. For all I know, you're some ragtag member of a gang somewhere."

His face falls a bit. He is large, but certainly not a gangster, as he has been accused. "Since vhen do young gangs around here have dheir own jewelry, sporting dhe symbol. Da?"

There is a moment of eye contact, and it makes the Siberian behemoth nervous the longer it drags on. Finally, the shorter man reaches forward and gingerly takes the bangle back. "…The Outland Reach, you say."

Within a few minutes more, he leaves, something simple, gold, and glittering in one hand. Ameli will be pleased. Now, to confront the rest of them for him to return home over the next few weeks.

He still has one more half of the present to fulfill.

* * *

 **A/N** : Plague being his brotherly self, to his baby sister.

This one was harder to do, since there are no trucks in Slugterra. Unless it's something made by Blakk Industries, and out of reach. Besides, I inundated a whole … five-prompt arc JUST for the Family Blakk, so we're staying away from that for a moment.  
Used its other definition [to barter] instead.


	23. 023 Antique

The collector's eyes glitter madly at the sight of _Ianmo_ sitting idle next to the others. He sidles up slowly, cautiously, to look over the old Warhorse, only then noticing the other three.

Just because she cannot emote does not mean she cannot read others emotions. He thinks this is paradise, staring from one STL-1 to the next, and the next. Down the line, the precious antiquated mechs kept in relatively top shape visually.

One finger carefully reaches forward, unaware of the mechanic elbows deep in the last one on the line watching his every move. A careful finger on one plate-cuff encasing the neck and she notices the way his face lights up further at the feel of the old iron and embossed detailing in enamel paint.

"It's original…" he mutters to himself.

"Stop beaming. You're setting dhe drapes on fire." she tells him, causing him to start when he realizes suddenly that someone is actually there.

"Oh! Oh, sorry. Just … is it really a STL-1?" he asks, apprehensively.

There's a reason for it, she knows; those who have the money buy replicated mechs based after the old Warhorse mechs, the original all-terrain horses. A replica can still have the bells and whistles of the old aesthetic, but only the innards of the originals tell the difference.

"Da. Family heirlooms." she replies, standing straight up after retrieving Vati from testing one of the connections inside _Paraquat_.

"All original?"

"Mostly. Had to replace some pieces outside model-standard, since dhey are no longer manufactured. But dhey still run fermented mushroom engines, and still do all-terrain. Still original iron frame and casings."

"So they're still in use."

"Da. Vhy vhaste dheir existence in a garage vhen dhey can remind people vhere dhe modern mech came from."

"They should be in a museum somewhere, restored in full to original…"

She snorts at this, cutting him off. "Not'ing dhese days has dhe raw power vhe need."

"But…"

"Move along. I don't have time for a little boy to tell me vhat I do vhit' my property."

He pauses, his face starting to fall. "…I'll buy them from you. I can have custom parts remade for them."

"…Dhat is dhe least original t'ing you could do to one of my mechs. Shoo."

He looks insulted that she's turned down his offer. She really doesn't care what he thinks. She was taught between her parents how to handle and care for the antique horses, and someone who has only seen a newer commissioned version on a salesfloor would have no idea the amount of effort and time it takes to keep the old machines running. By now, the inquiring has disappeared in a huff, and she has returned to her maintenance, digging back into the innards of _Paraquat_ 's main torso.

She looks to Vati again as the Tazerling zips down between a few wires. "'Be in a museum', indeed. Old beasts rot dhere."

A small twitch in the right corner of her mouth is given when Vati twitters in obvious agreement.

* * *

 **A/N** : Famine's biggest 'nono' is trying to tell her what to do with the mechs she grew up working on.

Just because the rest of Slugterra hasn't seen a STL-1 in full use for however long, doesn't mean they can tell her how to work with them. She knows more about them than you, shut up, is her philosophy.


	24. 024 House

There is sniffling.

It's a strange sound out here, where no one else frequents. Too loud to be a Slug, too quiet to be anything of notable danger. His head tilts, slowing _Ianmo_ to a stop to listen.

The more he listens, the weirder it gets. It sounds like it's coming from everywhere, his painted face giving a worried look. Sometimes, it's not the living creatures that one should worry about, and he's more than sure this is exactly that which is the opposite.

For a small time, he waits, simply keeping his ear to the noises around him before moving forward again. He hits it rather suddenly, pausing again and checking on his Frightgeist to make certain that it isn't just him.

Minerva can see, and feel, it too, the world awash with an overtone of blue. Not a pretty powder, baby, or sky blue.

Slate blue, the color of melancholy.

The energy changes to something heavy, oppressing. He doesn't like it, keeping all eyes open. Minerva pinpoints the source some ways down, pointing and chirping toward it.

He checks to make sure he has the necessary wards and spiritual weaponry, just in case this one is another flesh-eater. He's dealt with those before and thankfully, know just how to deal with them beforehand now. It pays to be prepared, even if nothing happens.

He flicks the old engine off, dismounts and makes his way toward the crying creature. He finds it after a short trek over unused pathways of a time long passed, a small girl nestled against the wall of the cavern beneath a canopy of young giant mushrooms. She's surprisingly solid, if not with a faint glowing outline of off-white.

" _Bonjour_."

The spectre starts, looking up toward the shaman with a glance up and down of him. She sniffs once before replying, quiet and cautious. "Can … can you see me?"

He shrugs, nonchalantly. Though his outward appearance is calm, he is still exercising caution, listening to Minerva on his shoulder. Should she tell him to get away, he will heed without question.

"I see a lotta t'in's. Y'ain't th'first. Not gonna be th'last."

She makes another sniff, wiping her nose. Probably a reflex to living. "No one really can anymore. I've been alone for a long time."

"Well, y'not simply a residual haunt." he tells her, though he keeps his distance still. Analyzing. "Means I can talk t'ye 'n' y'can respond naturally."

She nods, keeping her head low. "Is … is that special?"

"Means I can offer you a place y'won't be so lonely, if y'want."

This is the assessment; her fate hinges on her response and reaction. To banish or to harbor. Such is the way of a shaman proper. He watches her even closer than before, one hand hovering inconspicuously near where he has wards hidden.

The little ghost takes a second to consider the proposition, looking off thoughtfully to one side. "There are others who can see me too?"

He relaxes a small bit. There is no violence, no grabbing fingers. Nothing physical, just a scared ghost unaware of the power she has. It's best to keep that detail from her for now. Not until she's safely isolated from places she could use it against the living.

"Lots of others. Both like me, 'n' like you." He moves his other hand, pulls out a small bottle. "I can take y'there. Sorry, the transport's a bit small."

She really is a small girl, the emergence of the bottle drawing her from her perch. Curiosity riddles her features, the glow around her brightening a little. She's uninterested in him, more interested in the little glass container. "But I can go where there are others I can talk to with this?"

He shrugs again, watching her with a second pair of eyes still perched on his shoulder. Minerva sees more than he can. She is unperturbed for the moment. "It might be a li'l while, but there are lots of others in th'Reliquary. I'm sure you'll be safe 'n' happy there."

He flicks the cork out of the neck, offering the opening to her. She has passed his analysis; without reaching out for him or even actively trying to make physical contact without provocation, she is one of the calmer dead. She understands her predicament, and is more concerned about having someone to keep her company. Already, the mood of the area has shifted. The slate-blue has started turning a paler powder, the heaviness lifting gradually.

"Jus' b'careful of Boris. He's a bit touchy, but only if y'get in 'is space."

"Is he easy to avoid?"

" _Wi_. He's got th'back corner of the ground floor lounge." He chuckles amiably, making the skull painted across his face smile. "Black mass, usu'lly. Easy t'avoid."

Her attention is still locked on the bottle, though she gives a small nod of acknowledgement. One finger reaches forward, runs along the outside of the container. A series of odd symbols glows bright gold in the air around the little container, the little ghost turning into an ethereal wisp as she's sucked into the glass. He corks it, tight. The bottle glows, even as the symbols fade, a pale silver-blue. He places it in a special pouch, separated into small cubes in which other bottles sit, some glowing and others empty.

"Sorry it's takin' a while to get to th'house. But we're almost home."

The air is clear now, brighter. Lighter. He looks to Minerva, who nods and chirps her praises.

* * *

 **A/N** : Ghost-talkers do a lot more than just speak with the dead or exorcise them. They also keep the dead apart from influences that would turn them malevolent.

Could be better, could be worse.


	25. 025 Shatter

The Harvest Festival is in full swing, the whole of the cavern of Babel enjoying their yearly bounty in food and other goods. The upper islands are bedecked in lanterns and decor, a welcoming to winter and a prayer for the crops to yield again. It is an archaic practice, but it is one that brings the community closer together.

The music echoes over the chamber, drowning out the sound of the magnet, but not the sound of laughing colorful people. Like flowers spread across the lush green, mingling with the calls of Slugs hidden in trees and on fountains, it is like summer is abound instead of an incoming winter. The climate in the fissure in the magnet keeps it feeling that way, for certain.

Joviality brings a positive air to an otherwise unsettling setting. It is near the end of the festival, while the pageants and contests in various physical arts are the main happenings.

The tune of the magnet changes.

It starts at the top of the carved ceiling, shifting to lower octaves as it moves down the walls into The Pit. Electrical devices fritz, giving off stutters punctuated with white noise as voices die down. All eyes turn to the magnet, all sound muted save the roaring of the twin cascades. The octave shifts again, going lower still. Glass panes start to rattle audibly now, some of those in older windows wavering and bowing from the sheer weight of the sound.

Somewhere, the sound of shattering glass causes a few yelps of alarm and panic erupts across the crowd. The magnet's voice has never reached this low before. Those in positions of authority take control, calming people and filing them toward the pass out of Babel, Slugs having disappeared completely from view. Something has angered the magnet and it is time to evacuate until it calms itself enough to return.

The ground rumbles, a strange undulated thrum across the walls before silence.

The magnet ceases its voice, and that causes even more panic. Never has it gone completely silent before. Attention diverts when someone near the exit unleashes a single short scream. It is followed by several more sounds of fear, the crowd pushing back against one another further into the fissure, toward the Horsemen's manors. Away from the creature that has appeared seemingly from nowhere between them and the pass to the upper caverns.

It is impossibly tall and slender, disproportionate but vaguely humanoid. It looks more alien than anything. There are no details or features, colored like the walls that surround Babel, swirling silver-greys and metallic brown. It floats four inches off the ground, unclothed save for a set of layered rings swirling over the crown of the head like a halo.

It begins advancing slowly, small swish of dust of the ground beneath it. Babelans back up and move aside to make way for it. It is graceful, but strange. Unnervingly so, and the encompassing silence does little to calm the nerves. The shared feeling between those humans now trapped in the crack is that they will defend if they have to, even if it ends them. As it has them trapped, they will have it surrounded in this way.

It seems confused by the reception and silence from those around it. It loses loft, touching down on the ground briefly. With a resounding crackling, chunks of stonework in buildings and fountains nearby fly toward the entity. They stop within inches of it and start moving counter-clockwise around its waist, chunks of ground breaking and rising to take places in the halo pieces before it floats again at four inches.

It lets off a loud familiar thrumming noise, the centralized sound causing windows in the proximity of it to bow inward, then pull outward with the sound of breaking glass. They understand somewhat what it is now.

The destruction, the noise, the visual aesthetic.

Of course, it still makes them shy from it. The magnet is known for its volatile nature, and no one wants to set it off.

It is almost like it reads their minds, their caution alone setting into motion what they can only construe as a fit of anger. Its intonation changes to lower octaves, structures around it begin to crumble, sucking in toward it in pieces. Buildings, landscaping, even chunks of the floating islands themselves begin to pull inward before jettisoning back out. They take out walls, trees, a few of the mushrooms, miraculously missing the bridges between islands. The halo spins around its head, nothing more than grey and brown blurs.

Panic once more takes root, people ducking flying chunks of their world as they make a run for the exit pass once more. While they don't want to be anywhere near the magnet, it is the only way out, and they would rather deal with the walls than the physical manifestation of the thing.

"Kali!"

The name rings above the sounds of people screaming and filing into the pass. A young girl, of dark complexion and bronze eyes, stares at the rageful entity. For a moment, none hear her until she repeats it. Voices quiet, the destruction slowing to an end.

Masonry and large clods of sod and dirt start falling back down, the obelisk of a creature floating in close. It straightens up, the halo slowing to the lazy circles of before. It does not seem to shake the girl, who speaks again, pointing to it.

"You are as Kali. You allow peace and prosperity at your pleasure, but do not hesitate to maim and destroy. You are the Black Mother."

It makes a new sound, a thrumming chime, before breaking apart and disappearing. The rest of the debris rains down, leaving in its wake a pile of dust in the variegated silvers and browns. The magnet walls around them have started humming again, at the usual undulated tones. A heavy feeling of cautious fear hangs over those present as they slowly make their way back into the fissure.

It only wanted active acknowledgement.

* * *

 **A/N** : Milestone! One quarter of the way through the list!

This isn't necessarily canon in Babel lore; the magnet, although strangely sentient in its own way, cannot produce a physical manifestation. But my buds and I thought that as an AU, it would be interesting to do. Also, this is the Halloween idea, since the thought that this thing could potentially make an avatar for itself is a bit freaky on its own.

Plus, Shatter is a good prompt for it, since it has the inherent ability to create or destroy whatever is in its fissure.


	26. 026 Flower

"Und vat is zis?"

He's younger than she is, and scared of her visibly. But that isn't unusual. Everyone, in some manner, is afraid of Annabel Heinricht, the juggernaut-tank of the Twelfth Legacy. She's used to it and subtly revels in it.

He's offering her a small bouquet of local flora, a standard gesture of affections, though the shaking really only makes it even more awkward than it really is. He finally manages to get the words plaguing his mind out.

"S-since your Legacy i-is already producing heirs…"

Well, alright. Not all the way out, silenced with a small startled squeak as the great ax-head is brought down just in front of him with a loud thud! She pulls it back up with the center handle, swinging the odd weapon with the grace of a thresher, letting it rest across her shoulders. Cold blue eyes regard him, looking down. She already knows the rest.

"So you t'ought I vould be taking suitors now, _ja_?" Her voice lilts up at the end, a strange inflection of vocals, but none less unsettling. The crooked smirk on her face falls, distorts into a sneer. "Vell I'm not. So sorry to disappoint."

"But the creed states…"

He lets off a full yell as the scything warhammer is brought down again, a little bit closer this time. She leans over it, one eye scanning him over, testing his mettle. The growl in her throat is enough to make anyone cower and run.

"I gif you credit for sticking around so long, but remember zis. _Ich bin Krieg_." Back up and straight, ripping the warhammer out of the sod and twirling it back up over her shoulders again. "I'll go by _creed_ ven I feel like it. Now get your scrawny ass out of here. I haf better t'ings to do."

She doesn't need to tell him twice, shaking more as he disappears from sight. A cigarette between her jaws and lit, puffing away.

"Gonna haf to talk to ze Council again about zat." she mutters, rolling her neck so it cracks. "Don't even start vit' me, Arrus."

Plague emerges from where he has been observing the whole thing, standing next to her. Compared to his descendants later, he is considerably smaller than his Prussian companion, though that does not mean he cannot hold his own.

He pulls to a stop next to her, crossing his arms. "At dhis rate, you vhill not _have_ an heir to give. He vhas right, you know; it is better to bear just one…"

"I don't haf time for zis. I'll gif Babel un heir ven I feel like it." she hisses back around the burning cigarette.

He chuckles a bit, turning around and moving back to his manor. "Just don't scare dhe poor suitors too badly. Dhey are all delicate flowers in dhis cavern, doing vhat dhey t'ink is right. Even if dhey are very much not."

A pat to the smaller man's shoulder is given as she heads for the Council Hall. "I'll try to keep zat in mind. Go take care of your vife. I haf ot'er t'ings to do today…"

She stalks off, leaving behind the sound of clinking chains and angry mutterings.

* * *

 **A/N** : Annabel has no time for tradition. So stop forcing it on her.

Decided to play a bit with the Twelfth Legacy for a bit. I might do something with the Thirteenth at some point. But Annabel wanted to be written, so here she is, in all her staunch and terrifying glory.


	27. 027 Star

She's not particularly religious, but she does miss home, and in Babel, this was a religious time.

Midwinter is a time of unity, and of asking the gods in their lofty realm for the sun to return. No one in Babel has actually seen the sun, but they know it is there. Their teachings stem from the ancestors who escaped from the Surface in times of turmoil through the Exits. They still have the books that speak of the old religions, and use them frequently as a guide to their lives.

 _She remembers as a young child, standing next to Papa and watching as those in charge of the Midwinter festivities put the giant metal sun on the tallest point in Babel, the clocktower above the Council Hall. The way the light caught the red and gold brushed subtly across the arms to the burnished metal finish of the swirling center. She remembers tugging his pant leg carefully and asking what it was for, only to receive that charming chuckle from him as he picked her up and began his trek through the upper islands._

 _"Zey are asking ze Gods for ze sun to return to us."  
_

 _Her nose crinkled at it. "But ve don't haf a sun."_

 _"It's old tradition, passed down." he explained. "Better written in books."  
_

 _"To ze Library?"  
_

 _"To ze Library."  
_

It is Midwinter, or close to it. She misses dearly being small, standing in Babel with Papa at her side, talking about the religions that abound the area. Misses the little carnivals that lead up to the bigger Festival of the Sun. Misses the color and life.

She pulls out of a bag a trinket she bought the last time she was in Babel, six months ago. A palm-sized sun in burnished metal. Something to remind her of home, something to remind her of times bygone.

She places it on Thaddius' desk in the main office, as it is the center of the Citadel, and leaves it there for the allotted time. It is no Festival of the Sun, but she doesn't mind that. It is still home.

Its presence confuses the monolithic industrialist for three weeks.

* * *

 **A/N** : War is just a bit homesick.

Bounced back to her for this one.


	28. 028 Goal

The crack that leads into the magnet is silent of all but the natural thrum in the rock, save for the low sound of _Bucephalus_ easing its way through it. He doesn't know what he'll find at the end; he did aid his brother in desecrating one of the Reach's most sacred sites within the last year or so.

The walls are enclosing, stretching to a taper high above in the swirling metallic greys and browns of the magnet. He expects the reception in Babel to be a harsh one, but he has settled it in himself with the reasoning that he is a Blakk before he is of Babel. That was one thing his mother could never properly train out of him, but he did embrace the art of his element and tricked her into thinking otherwise.

The art of war is deception, after all.

He can hear the roaring of the cascades now, echoing up the narrow pass toward him. Soon, he will be out into the open. Progression is still slow, but he certainly has to own up to his actions; no War in the history of the title has ever been so disrespectful to those of the Reach as he has.

Babel is strangely quiet as he comes out of the pass to the upper islands. No businesses are open, no whispers of humans, no chirping of Slugs. Still, he knows his destination is the Council Hall. They will be waiting for him there.

 _Bucephalus_ is braked and shut down next to the grand structure that is the Hall, a deep breath, the mask pulled down. One always addresses the Council with the face of the title until they say otherwise. It would be poor for him to make a misstep now, with his fate as his title hanging.

As expected, the whole of the cavern is there. They know, eyes of mingling emotions mixing together and solely on him. He feels it all on his progress down the central aisle to the upraised podiums the Council sits behind, the other three of his brethren sat below them in stance with heads lowered.

 _Hatred._  
 _Shock._  
 _Confusion._  
 **Fear.**

All attention is on him, though he strides forward with the mask in place and hiding any expression. His head is high, red-tinted eyes set forward on the Council above until he stands before them. They start immediately.

"You have violated much of the creed of your title. The Elves of Derin informed us all of your actions against that which they find religious and sacred. What do you have to say for yourself, bringing this … shame and embarrassment upon our cavern?"

He folds his arms behind himself, curving his back a bit to raise his eyes level with those he is addressing. "It vas necessary to vat needed to be done. Babel needs _Krieg_ in attendance und zere vas only one vay to make sure zat happened."

"By offense toward those who did not anger you beforehand? This is outrage, we should have you executed for this! The Derin certainly think this is punishment enough and have demanded retribution, almost a year ago, when you and your brother crashed your craft into their Exit!"

"Xerxes has been incarcerated for his actions on his return as vell by his aut'ority. He has not gone unpunished, he expected his fate ven ve set out. If it pleases…" His hand reaches up, undoes the hinge locks on the mask, and pulls the heavy ceramic covering off to offer it to those above. "…I resign mein position to take responsibility."

Halfway toward reaching for the offered mask, despite hissed whispers of protest from the other three Horsemen below, the Head Voice stops. His eyes find those of his young War, resolute and jade green, without a hint of the red before. There is no flicker of animosity, no shift of needed control, no slight shimmer of deathly pallor. Just a face of no expression, colored ivory like his mother with the hard commanding gaze of his father.

He is human, with no telltale sign of the Ghoul's presence.

The hand withdraws. "Your resignation at this time will not be necessary. We have none to take your place. However!" The last word is raised in volume, heard above the angry cries for justice scattered among the once-silent crowd. "However. You will not go unpunished for this insult. Go to the Derin, and remove per their instructions the wreckage that still blocks their Exit. It is unholy and foreign and does not belong." The choice seems to settle the crowd some, though the news is not yet finished. "Once you have completed this task, you may return, and begin the move where you belong. The Edelweiss will have a War residing once more."

There are cheers as the mask is returned to its place. A few sore spots, he knows, but they will learn that having War to live among their brethren proper is better than being separated. Covered and protected on three sides on his way out by the others, Death makes sure to whisper in his ear, "We'll take care of th'movin'. You got ot'er t'in's to worry 'bout, _wi._ "

He chances a smile, feeling the uncertain curl of one lip even though she can't see it. It feels good now to not hear the whispered venom in the back of his mind to feel and show emotion, though it will still take considerable time to regain it naturally, if it returns.

"Our goals haf been reached. I'm moving into ze magnet."

* * *

 **A/N** : Took a bit to think up what to do for this, but with the holiday over, Marius came to mind.


	29. 029 School

He stands to his father's right, just slightly behind him. The Express has stopped, a sign that it is time to disembark. Thaddius braces himself with the cane proper, used to this by now. Xerxes tries to brace and fails, stumbling to one side a few steps before regaining his footing. It causes the larger industrialist to shake his head, a subtle twitch.

The boy is fourteen, just recently debuted as the eventual heir to the company. He has a lot to learn still, old enough to finally leave the safety of the Citadel and experience the world beyond. This is why he is out here today, accompanying his father on a check in one cavern. He must learn, and not in the conventional way.

The door slides open, father exiting first, son following soon after alongside Maurice. Compared to his towering father, Xerxes is small and awkward. In no way can he fill out his sire's sheer presence, physically or otherwise. That doesn't stop him from trying to square himself up to make himself look bigger. He fails at that too, causing Maurice to start chuckling. It deflates him, sure, but not enough to make him slack in defeat. Just enough to relax.

The first stop is with the technicians in charge of the progress in the cavern, and also the one to explain why such has been halted. The sight of Thaddius is enough to make even the most trustworthy of his employees show a fearful respect. Speaking with them, the old Pseudobane makes certain his heir and protege is paying close attention.

"These are lessons you will have to learn." he has already explained on the way. "Handling employees and outside situations is a large part of the position."

Xerxes doesn't say anything during these demonstrations. He watches, closely observes and commits to memory everything. The technician and all her details, the words exchanged between the parties, each inflection and each tone of voice, every twitch and nuance of any body language used. Like his brother, he has been cursed with a War mind; he will retain this information until the day he dies.

Apparently, one of the towns Thaddius had ordered leveled has decided they are not moving. As a result, the industrialist has had to leave the comfort of his Citadel to handle it himself.

Location changes, the technician in charge leads her boss and his entourage to where the representative of the people in this cavern is waiting to deal negotiations. As expected, the one in charge is less than pleased to see Thaddius, limping purposefully toward him with no change in his stance and with no less eye-rolling once he is laid into. Typical routine, it seems.

The exchange of terms is much less pleasant here, and while he still keeps his eye scanning the entirety of the scene and all that plays out, Xerxes still takes a sliding step backwards. Even though the other party is focused solely on his father, a wrong eye in his direction could put him and the negotiations in jeopardy.

For a time, hostilities are shown by the representative, insults and disgust thrown with all the diplomacy of a Rammstone in a glassworks. Despite his attempt to stay well out of targeting range, the young protege is still noticed and a few badly-decided threats concerning the boy and his parentage are sneered.

As expected, Maurice starts the armament, the whirr of a multitude of Industries-issued Blasters firing up singing familiar dissonance in the air. Even though Xerxes shows no reaction to it, stone-faced and stoic as he has been taught to be, he still feels the butterflies of mild nervousness flit through his system. His adrenaline is heightened, a natural response in accordance with his mother's teachings; Fight or Flight has begun, though he tries to ignore it.

However, it is not the Blasters aimed inward that causes fear so much as the reaction of the aging industrialist himself, choosing now to flare in a blatant display of his own threat, pulsing with a visible red glow in the noontime Lumino light and his broad visage distorting and warping noticeably. The roaring retort, accompanied by the gnashing of terrifyingly grown needles of teeth so close to his face forces the contact to cower back. The ringing strike of the metal cane on the ground with each syllable of emphasis drives the subject straight home, like a hammer hitting a crucial nail into place.

"You face _me_! You do _not_ face the whelp! You will direct your anger and your threats only on me, for it is _I_ who gives the orders to turn your lives to dust where you stand! It is only of your own poor luck his mother isn't here to defend herself, but that still leaves you facing me and _me alone_! If your attention strays again, I will _grind_ you into paste and _mix_ you with the ground!"

Any amiable mood the hulking Pseudobane could have had has disappeared by now, visible struggling to hold control over the Dark Water imbued in his veins. He whirls around with an unexpected grace, unable to continue without another explosion, stalk-limping toward Maurice and his paling son. The child has not seen his father in full livid display before, and it is indeed a thing to haunt nightmares.

"I want this place reduced to rubble in six hours. Inform both our technical teams and this disgusting excuse for a man that is when we will force our way through. I am through with these … _children_ , if this is how they choose to receive us."

Maurice gives a nod of understanding and strides forward to take his old friend's role, Thaddius stalking back toward where his Express engine is parked on the tracks. Xerxes is not far behind, following unbidden and keeping close. After his public debut, he was warned of the dangers of the role, and the hostility shown from their brief contact with the representative has him set on edge. He follows his father without question or being told to as an attempt to keep him safe from any who would try to use him against the elder; despite being crippled and aging, Thaddius Blakk is still a force to be reckoned with.

It takes a few minutes after the door slides shut behind them for the monolithic Pseudobane to calm enough to speak with even tones again. Red-ringed green eyes stare down at the child at his side, stern but considerably less violent.

"Sometimes verbal negotiations do not go as planned. Desperate people will grasp at desperate straws to try to gain an upper hand. Let them try to pull themselves up a crumbling cliff. Your job is to remain that cliff, be strong and quiet, but _treacherous_ all the same. Unleash a landslide on them if they pull the wrong stone out of place." He sinks down into his usual seat, easing carefully between the desk and the cane, sighing as he settles. "Considering what I _expected_ of your first field visit, you've done quite well under _un_ expected pressure. Good show, Xerxes."

That small smile that crosses the boy's face at such blatant praises worries the elder Blakk just slightly, though he doesn't show it. Though pleasant, there is still a certain willful aspect to it. Rebellious. Thaddius knows all too well at this point that it is only a matter of time before that begins to show itself.

He has learned. And he is ready for it.

* * *

 **A/N** : Bit of a late submission, but I didn't expect it to be this long.

Unconventional take on the word, but this still falls under it, I think.


	30. 030 First Crush

She hasn't felt this way about anyone before. But no one else has shown her the kindness and courtesy as he has. He's not even from her cavern, and she tells herself that this is why he does it.

Anyone who knows of her father's traitorous ways would not treat her so well.

They say he is from the Eastern Wall, but he looks more like someone from the cavern system just next to hers. Tall, broad of build, with short white-blond hair and commanding pale blue eyes.

He is beautiful, he is terrifying. And he speaks her language, in a literal sense. Outside the standard Slugterran, he understands and speaks the German of the Western-Central systems. He intrigues her, as much as she hopes the same of her presence to him.

She knows for now that it is all one-sided, and comes to terms that it may stay that way. She is far too shy to approach him, much less confess anything to him.

But no one said she couldn't admire him from afar.

* * *

 **A/N** : Dietrich and Adelaide. Before she goes insane and attempts to murder her daughter. The terms on which two of the Thirteenth Horsemen are in the Western-Central caverns is a dark one, to be honest.


	31. 031 Religion

The bells of the clock tower ring in the dawn, resonating metallic vibrations to mingle with the chasm's wordless voice. The world of morning begins, after all work is complete.

Babel wakes with its shimmering and chimes, a song on their voices for the morning mass. To the residual sounds of the bells, voices are mixed, high and low, masculine and feminine, in familiar hymns taught in childhood and passed onto following descending generations.

In unified song, they sing to the magnet, they sing to the stone. They sing to the roaring waterfalls, and to The Pit spiraling to unfathomable depths below. They sing for their Gods, for their mortality, for their fantastical creatures of theological mythos. They sing for salvation and condemning. They sing their lives and pledge to the effigies of holy guardians and the face of Zoroaster, carved eons before their time into the swirling walls of their unusual home cavern.

The hymn comes to a close, the High Voice of the Council emerges with books and texts as old as their godly images in hand. He sets to a podium on the steps leading to the tallest of the upper buildings, the Council Hall, and his voice rings the sacred texts while other members and his disciples light the incense and set all to pray to those figures spoken of, to the lessons to be learned and taught, the all-seeing eyes of the cavern's central religious entities. It mingles, the teachings, with an attempt at the other more popular of religions and not only does such tactic show that all are welcome, but that all within the isolated walls are seen. Books are changed back and forth, mixing and mashing theological ideologies and stories, and to those listening, it is as if the two separate pantheons have come to share the same minds and hearts. It brings them all a sense of unity to their neighbors, no matter how different they all actually are.

It is much different at the back of the cavern, a different chapel held and practiced.

Four bodies rouse from where they make their beds simultaneously, four bodies wash and eat. Four bodies perform chores about their residences to keep them level-headed. With no distress calls in their jurisdiction the night before, they can take their time with their morning. It is still in unison, mental gears shifting on an unseen and unheard shared routine.

Four bodies exit at once and converge to where their matched warhorses await them. Above the sounds of the sermon of the mixing church, the roar of four engines in tandem mingle and fade into the eternal thrumming of the magnet surrounding, temporarily drowning out the preachings of the High Voice, yet not drawing attention away from gods and energies he openly speaks for. Morning mass will be complete before the morning patrols are completed.

For Horsemen, it is a different religion their hearts beat in synchronization for.

* * *

 **A/N** : And back on track.

Religion is always a fun subject to play with.


	32. 032 Light

"We're going to get in so much trouble."

It's the way he says it. In a way, Marius has come to the realization that his elder brother is eternally five years old. The way the rock walls and the columns blur passed as they run through corridors carved millennia ago. The same corridors their ancestors passed through just as long prior, their aim for the depths of the crust, for Slugterra. Now, generations later, their descendants are making a bolt using those same passages, in the opposite direction. Back to the surface.

Marius is quiet. He lets the elder twist and turn through the labyrinth carved out of the rock, a swirl of his coat or mantle the only way to find him as he runs straight ahead. It won't be long before the Shane and their gang talk their way into continuing pursuit of the two brothers.

Xerxes stops and pulls a pin from beneath a large round rock. Really, it's more of a large wedge, and really, he kicks it viciously out of the way. Gloved hands find worn holds to either side of the stone and with a small bit of strain and a loud crackling grind, the disc rolls out of the way on a track dug only for it, showering age-old dust from a groove at the top. Another corridor is beyond it, quiet and abandoned, Xerxes ushers his brother into it and replaces the rock as best he can from his side with little effort.

"Lever systems. Gotta love 'em." he snarks before turning with a swirl back to the task at hand. "It'll be close to morning soon."

The excitement bubbling just beneath the elder's surface is, as usual, contagious. There's a flicker of residual energy moving through his brother, stamped out just as quickly. Once more, they move through corridors. Cavernous rooms, narrow passageways.

The air quality changes the further they climb, up and up. Fresh and chill in their burning lungs. It isn't long before the pair burst over the gates locked over the entrance, their exit. Once out in the open, shock takes over.

The world beyond is massive, as promised in stories. Pinpricks of light above are fading to a rosy glow on the far horizon. Wind ruffles hair, a change in the energy of the moment as the tip of something bright begins to rise into view slowly.

"Zat ist ze sun, isn't it." There is a sort of reverent awe in Marius' voice at it, and Xerxes only begins to grin at hearing the emotion creeping into his voice.

"Yeah. I guess it is. And here, most of Slugterra thinks it's a folktale."

There's something strange in the way the elder smiles. And it coincides with a distinct change in the noises only the younger can hear, an uncharacteristic hissing whimper out of the Ghoul.

 _It doesn't like sunlight…_

* * *

 **A/N** : Yay! Late! I'm trying to catch up, I promise. Got distracted.

More derpage from the brothers Blakk. Mostly Xerxes being a scheming shit, as usual.


	33. 033 Knight

It is his choice to protect. But it is also instinct that dictates how he reacts to those who need it most. He always imposes the thought of _What if it was one of mine?_ and the mental image draws a sort of empathy from him for it.

It does not matter gender, age, or ethnicity to him. To the towering Siberian, all who require assistance know he will come. He will stand with broad frame drawn wide to protect, with the gauntlets whining at his beck and call to be used.

A damsel can be anyone, and all can be a dragon. It is his job to be the knight.

* * *

 **A/N** : Have some Plague. Short, yeah. But it fits well.


	34. 034 Train

To be fair, he's afraid. He's not supposed to feel fear, but there is an instinctual flutter in his stomach when he knows that he's a lot smaller than his sparring partner. After all, he is the smallest of the four and is better trained to holistic medicinals and talking to dead people than he is for combat, and the towering Prussian is trained to be nothing short of a weapon of mass destruction.

He's heard stories of her prowess already, and how at the age of sixteen, her body count exceeds little more than the population of a small town. This is the first time he's really actually seen how she's grown up close. He sees her father standing some ways behind her, assessing. He knows his is not too far away, doing the same.

" _War is unpredictable and can easily lose control, turn on you instead. Best get your chops in and learn how to disable them before you're put into that situation."_

He squares himself off to prepare for the onslaught, what he already knows is his inevitable slaughter. He strikes a relaxed stance to open and notices that she … has not. Hers is a relaxed attention, leaving herself wide open. He takes it, which is probably not the smartest thing he's ever done.

He closes the distance easily, anchors and strikes. He thinks he can hear Death clicking his tongue at the rash action, and it is rash. He realizes now the tactic, deception is War's best friend. What was open is now closed, already wholly assessing the strike as it aims for where she used to be, proper counter planned out.

A hand to his outstretched wrist, the opposing shoulder to his arm pit. Using his own momentum and her impressive height, she flips him easily over onto his back. He lands with a loud thud, the breath knocked out of him. He uses the coughing fit to mask his next move, a swift kick out at one of the heel supports of the braces. She's already anticipated it, or heard him. It's like she has eyes in the back of her head, the targeted foot moving so she's braced over his striking leg. Before he can lift it up and carry through into another attack, she's bent backward, braced with one hand on his chest, a small knife in the other and aimed at his throat.

For a moment, he does appreciate the amount of combat training she has endured for this. It fades with a roll to one side and a grab at her hand as it leaves his chest. His leg lifts her up and over, but he notices with a strange sense of dread that she is easy to lift and has little awkward balancing in that motion. It hits that either she has acclimated that quickly, or this is what she was after all along. He won't know either way.

She twists easily in the air, flipping about to land upright, a roll of her weight into the lightweight heel supports to equal her balance out again before he has a chance to regain his feet. The speed at which she moves is terrifying, having deemed him a threat and taken the opportunity to stomp it out of existence.

He sees the change easily, the way the eyes have hardened. The more precise the strikes become. He can only counter to the best of his abilities, driven backward and defending. The fear that's been present in his body has escalated again, particularly when he feels the sharp pain across the palm of one hand. He doesn't have to see it to know where it has come from; she's had that little dagger in her hands for a while now.

The recognition of pain causes him to gasp, falter a bit. She takes the window like an expert fighter, gloved hand wrapping around his throat and tightening to draw the fight out of him, lifting him bodily off the ground. The once hidden knife is glinting menacingly in the other, pulled back to ready for that final strike. How did they expect him, who is not specialized in combat, to take this juggernaut of a soldier down in one fight?

" _Halt_!"

The blade pauses, her entire body going rigid at the command. Her grip hasn't loosened yet. Her father strides forward, squared about the shoulders. "Put him down. It's over for now."

She relaxes, drops him to the ground and watches him as he crumples, gulping air down greedily. War crosses the training grounds to speak with Death, his descendant has since put the weapon back wherever she hides it. A hand is offered to the minute Haitian, which he takes hold of. She squares, pulls him up with little effort to his feet. He notices the eyes are different, glittering again.

" _Es tut mir leid_. I suppose I let meinself get carried avay…"

"'S a'igh'." He understands a little, but he won't disregard that when in the mindset of skirmish, she could easily be nightmare fuel. He knows he's going to probably suffer a few tonight, due in part to the fact that she was so willing and ready to spill the blood of her own comrade.

She shares that little half-smile at knowing she hasn't fully scared him away. He sees the genuine concern in that fanged grin, sure. But there's still something else he's sure is there, right beneath the surface. Sinister, lingering.

 _Bloodlust_.

* * *

 **A/N** : Took a second to figure out what I wanted to do with this one, but I think it came out decently.


	35. 035 Contest

The distress comes from the Northern Outpost, the one that borders the wilds of the Northern Wall. Where the Sirifolk live. Proxy guardians are labelled for the lesser disturbances along the Eastern Wall. All Horsemen are to respond immediately to any call from the Outpost.

The roar of the warhorses as they follow the packed and beaten roads that cut neat shortcuts across the landscape echoes off the cavern walls, like angry dragons in flight. They are not the fastest of mechs, but the old chargers do their job and take rough terrain with a startling ease for their age.

The further north they go, the more they notice people of all sorts have disappeared. Probably hiding, they tell themselves. It's a good idea to, though Sirifolk are more or less predictable in that they might chase fleeing people for food.

The Northern Outpost is still intact, which is a good sign from the outside, but War exercises caution. The rest of his small contingent does the same. Peaceful does not mean safe. The STL-1 chargers are brought in slow and steady, keeping eyes open and senses alert. Famine has his displays up to track any foreign bodies that may try to sneak in; he'll warn the others if anything is amiss.

The gates open to the fortress-pass on their approach, a pair of soldiers waving them in hurriedly. Relief floods the quartet of guardians to see that the inside of the fort is untouched by conflict. But they know the distress is for a reason.

War and Plague head the party, the juggernaut and the muscle. They follow the hushed leads of the two who let them in up the stairs toward the north side of the pass. They already know what to expect, and the sharp golden eyes staring back at them from the darkness only serves to prove the reason they are here.

"It's Argos. He's been sitting there and ignoring hailing for a while now. We thought you guys could get him to say what he wants." one of the soldiers at the wall reports before standing aside and away from the wall.

A look is shared before the two front Horsemen step forward. Plague issues the call to the Sirin leader, War looks over the edge carefully to make sure none of the birdfolk are hiding out of sight over the wall.

"Vhat do you vhant?"

He comes slinking from the shadows, feathers rattling together. The Sirifolk are imposing in size, usually close to eleven feet. Argos stands three feet taller than most of those in his caverns. He is patterned with long feathers in iridescent greens and reds, a white and black underbelly and piercing eyes of gold. He strides forward with the unerring grace expected of a bird, tail feathers folded around his lower half and his wing wrists resting carefully over his shoulders.

"I've come to negotiate the passage for a few of my people. They've fallen ill with something our facilities have never seen before and do not have the facilities to find out what or how to heal it."

War mutters out the side of his mouth toward his fellow Horseman. "Vat do you t'ink? Is he being trut'ful for once?"

Plague draws her mouth into a thin line, considering the caution shown by her comrade. Finally, she calls down to him. "Disarm yourself so vhe can see you mean us no harm, Argos."

A sly thin smile crosses the Sirin's face before he purrs in response, "I suppose I have in the past given you no reason to trust my intentions. Very well."

A small trail of Reach-native Slugs disappears from the feathery draperies across his body, retreating some ways away. A nod is given, but before Plague can tell them to open the gates, War stops her.

"Let us see zese sick birds of yours, Argos." he calls down, his brow beginning to furrow.

The smile that was once on the Sirin leader's face is beginning to fall now, golden eyes narrowing. "I have proven my intent with disarming, do you not take belief that I mean only the best for my people?"

Out the corner of his mouth, War mutters to Plague first. "Tell Famine to go down to _Bu_ und fetch mein scythe." His voice raises back to respond toward the monstrous bird-hybrid. "You're not alone, Argos. But none of zem are sick or ailing. I refuse to open zese gates until I see your birds near death on mein doorstep."

Argos' features twist and warp into a sneer and in a flash, he is scaling the wall up toward the ramparts above. Famine is hurrying back with the weapon in question, a short-bladed scythe in hand as the bird crests the ramparts and opens his awesome wings in a form of defiance to the request. The silhouette dwarfs the entire half of the north wall without contest.

"I should have known you lot would see through the ruse. Our chances were lost when they called you." The laugh on his voice through unnaturally-wide mouth studded with tiny sharp teeth is enough to chill the blood. "But that's alright, because you probably guessed I'm not fully disarmed!"

From the folds of his left wing's pinion feathers, he pulls a small Slug, dark blue with a hint of white shimmering around the top of its little head down its back. Even for such a small thing, it opens its mouth wide and belts a song too sweet for what it creates. It doesn't even need to hit Velocity to propagate in those who hear it dangerous hallucinations.

"Phantasm! Plug your ears!" Plague yells instinctively toward those who have scattered at the entrance of the great bird.

War yells something unintelligible over one shoulder toward Famine with his arm extended toward him, who has already plugged his ears and reads his companion more by his body language than the verbal. The scythe is tossed toward the Prussian's outstretched hand, caught and swung up with a practiced grace. Horsemen don't Sling, but that is not always necessary.

Joined by Plague, War heads the first charge, aiming for the iridescent leader of the Sirifolk. A small squad of the great birdfolk's own Elite forces take the opportunity to try and take the fortress Outpost, the ambush lost.

* * *

 **A/N** : **To Contest** : _To fight for, or against, something_

Wanted to get some Thirteenth Legacy out there somewhere; what better way to do that and introduce the Sirifolk of the Northern Wilds in the same shot, eh?

Extra credit to anyone who can guess what kind of bird Argos is.


	36. 036 Money

"Whadya mean, 'exchange rate'!"

The incredulous outburst from Death causes War and Plague to stick their heads in the door momentarily. The smaller Haitian is looking particularly angry here, something they have yet to see him do. Their vigilance is in part to keep him from hurting anyone or anyone hurting him, as well as to witness the spectacle of the usually-calm Death blow his top.

The Molenoid behind the desk gives an expression like he hates his job, probably does with everyone who comes through questioning his authority. "I don't make the rules, I just follow them. Because your coins are stamped means that they are just slightly heavier or lighter than the ones that circulate around our 99 Caverns." he responds, rolling his eyes as if he's explained it almost all day today. "I don't know where you come from, and I really don't care. The point of the matter is, that I can't take your money without knowing if it's heavier or lighter."

"So call it lighter, 'n' take mo'e, I doan care!" Certainly the families' wealth can suffer the tiny scratch that would leave in it. Which honestly is little detriment to it.

"But I don't know _which_ it is!"

The look shared between the two at the door goes unnoticed by both those in the little shop. Plague nods his head toward his smaller companion, and she strides forward in the complete posture of control. The shopkeep shrinks back visibly at the sight, Death rolls his eyes as though to say 'See what happens?'

"I'll try to make zis simple." she states, picking up the bag of coins stamped with the Faravahar, from the Eastern Wall. "How much ist our tab in your price?"

"Five…?" It's apprehensive, they all know it. The intimidating presence of the taller woman is enough flatten the field; a neutral turf now to conduct as a third party mediator, as opposed to giving the power to one side or the other. Those not used to the expression of power out of her are usually rendered to stuttering uncertainty.

She digs through the bag, pulling out ten of the coins and laying them on the counter. "Zat should be more zan enough." Before the Molenoid has a chance to retort, she responds. "Keep ze change."

As Death begins reaching for the bags on the counter, the response comes. "But … how do I know you haven't shorted…"

"I am starving." she hisses, laying hardened eyes on him. "Unless you vould rat'er I eat Molenoid on a spit, I suggest you take vat ist given und let me eat."

A wave of his hand and a nervous laugh send the patrons out the door. As they make their way back down the street, Death pouts a bit.

"I had it handled."

Another look between his larger comrades and a knowing chuckle is shared. "I'm sure you did."

* * *

 **A/N** : Coming back to this briefly in a moment of downtime!

Have a thing, while I try to kick the drawing muses into some form of gear.


	37. 037 Candy

She's not sure where it came from, staring warily at the basket that has been left out in the open through the open framing of her own _Paraquat_. It's colorful, filled to the brim with carefully wrapped treats and other such goodies. But now she's cautious about it.

 _Who left it there?_

She looks to Vati, the Tazerling spotting it and shrugging. A hand is extended toward the Slug, who takes it readily before her handler strides with that subtle limp toward the suspicious basket. She'll always trust her Slugs' reactions to things more than her own, knowing that human nature is to err. Slugs are more perceptive, and Vati's input is valuable.

The Tazerling sniffs at the basket, trying to detect anything wrong with it. Apparently, nothing seems to be, the little Slug giving a shrug to denote that she sees no problem with it. A fast check over the thing reveals no note, no card, nothing to show who it's to or from. She decides it needs more extensive research.

Right on cue comes her wafting companion, that tall [and reckless] Prussian. The test subject found, even though she knows the taller would probably murder her if anything is wrong with them.

Something small is selected from the brimming basket, a short whistle to catch the ebon-maned menace's attention. As expected, War turns on a dime, a shift of weight against the heel supports to make a sudden and sharp about-face. The piece is tossed to her, caught with little effort.

She looks over it, confused. "Ze Hell ist zis…"

Famine shrugs. "No idea. It vhas left here."

"How do you know it's not … poisoned or somet'ing…"

Of course, the one day War actually has some sense of self-preservation. Figures…

"Does it look poisoned or drugged?"

Another flick of the piece over her fingers, a deeper visual analysis. "No discoloration or ot'er veirdnesses…" A sniff. "…Smells normal…" The wrapper is removed with that same careful observation to both wrapper and candied piece of what looks like fruit before popping it into waiting fanged jaws. A small noise of appreciation is given. "I don't know, tastes pretty gute." A shrug is given to sum it up before she walks away again.

A slow nod from the Russian, standing up to return to her work and stealthily keep an eye on her taller comrade. For fifteen minutes, she watches, ample time for anything wrong to go wrong. Nothing happens in that frame; no doubling over, no passing out. Simply War going about her usual day in camp. A look toward Vati, once more the Tazerling shrugs. A shrug back before the stocky Russian slips out again to retrieve the basket.

It takes her and her small team of three Slugs the better part of a week to finish the contents with little adverse effects; Wilt gets a stomach ache, of course, but that is to be expected when something that small eats four pieces of caramel in under an hour.

* * *

 **A/N** : In which Famine is more devious than one expects. Yes, let's subject the juggernaut to potential poisoning, why don't we. And without Death in sight.

She's had better ideas.


	38. 038 Oil

**FAIR WARNING: Violent PTSD relapsing ahead.**

* * *

He's never seen her like this. He's not worried; berserk juggernaut or not, he's still at least four times her size. Still, it is a thing to behold.

Gone is the calculating general, in its place a bloodthirsty monster. The amount of outright devastation caused by one person is fairly impressive, and Plague is content to sit back and wait for his smaller 'brother' rather than get in her way.

"Good t'in' she dinna relapse in a town…" The Haitian appears from seemingly nowhere with an old-fashioned blowgun and a small case of darts. Immediately, he sets about mixing one of his herbal concoctions. "Dun 'member nuttin' durin' one, but she dun b'needin' to put mo'stress on 'erself, _wi_. Be a big difference 'tween killin' consciously an' killin' wit'out knowin'."

The Siberian looks briefly toward his comrade before shifting his weight and simply watching. Indeed, the Prussian seems to be taking a majority of her wrath out on the flora in a pass between cavern-towns. "Vhat causes it?"

"Oh, a number o' t'in's." is the reply as the shorter adds a hint of spring water to the mix. "Mos'ly post-trauma spells. Y'dun b'fallin' into Th'Pit an' 'spect t'come outta t'at in one piece, 'specially under her circumstances."

"More vhays dhan one, it seems."

The shaman chuckles a bit, rolling the pasty mixture onto the tips of no less than three of the darts before loading them into the tube. "Ain't t'at th'true-truth." With a huff and a push up, he rises to stand. "Could I … getcha to distract 'er a bit? I need 'er neck, an' I can't hit _nuttin'_ wit'er runnin' 'round."

Plague scrunches his face up in mild distaste at witnessing the volatile end to a small mushroom sprout out of the Prussian beanpole. "Fighting oil vhit' fire…" he mutters before stalking down into the impromptu arena.

The movement catches her eye and her head turns, and the change is startling up close. Usually, there is an expression spread across her features, whether it be a deranged happiness or an insatiable rage. Now, there is nothing; her face is blank, her eyes empty and glazed, staring through him instead of at him. Her gait is stuttered as she moves toward him, abnormal and not as graceful as it usually is. There is a strange feral air about her, each movement made more on base instinct than precise planning.

Artful dodging is implemented, keeping just out of her arm's reach at all times while attempting to get her close to the ridge he observed from earlier. Closer to Death with his homemade and no doubt potent sedatives. She doesn't even notice the shaman, following her target around loosely like a dog on a slacking lead. She comes dangerously close to raking fingertips across the considerably taller man's chest and he recognizes that glint peeking above the tips of her fingers; the Prussian juggernaut means business.

He has forgotten momentarily about Death's position on the rise until, out of worried impatience, the Haitian moves silently closer from behind. A careful aim, a deep breath, and the first dart flies. It hits its target at the back of her neck and immediately, she is sent into a rage. Blank eyes, fangs bared in obvious threat as her face contorts with the inhuman roar she emits and she whirls about to face the new challenger. An eerie combination, like watching a zombie on the prowl. Two stumbling steps is all she gets before collapsing in a puff of dust, a faint clatter of the small knife she held hitting the ground from her slackened grip.

Plague takes a few steps toward her, understandably cautious. Death keeps the blowgun close at hand as he too makes his way slowly and warily toward her. Both are tense, the taller Siberian nudging the fallen in the small of her back gently. When she makes no move, he sweeps her smaller body into his arms, Death grabbing the surrendered weapon.

"She'll come to an' be 'erself 'gain. T'be honest, I dun like seein' 'er like t'at…"

Plague huffs a small sigh. "Like oil and fire…"

* * *

 **A/N** : Something a bit more on the tragic side.

While considerably more rare than they used to be, War does still suffer PTSD relapses and loses control. Blacks out, destroys _everything_ in her way until she passes out from exertion, and comes to with no memory of it. Only that she was upset and now she isn't. Thankfully, her title-brothers know how to handle such spells and keep her and others safe from harm.

Relapses are different for different people. Some withdraw and relive the experience over and over, some lash out without meaning to, or without being aware that they are.


	39. 039 Flight

He's not sure where it happened, but the door-hinge pin that normally holds that glorious mane has disappeared. It unravels almost as soon as it's let free, ink in water. A counterpoint to the float of footwork, the chiming **clink!** of metal heel supports against the floor rhythmic to its unscheduled dance.

It seems to have its own sentience, swirling with tendrils of its own accord in an unholy halo, a void shadow come to life and spreading, devouring all that touches its seemingly boundless reach. A hellish creature cast on spindly limbs and dragging black smoke in its wake, a train of smouldering brimstone with the occasional peek of brilliant red and gold collaring her neck.

Her advance slows as it wafts in an obscuring cloud into view, a small sputter as a few rogue locks cling to her face, try to swallow its host as well. The blades fall, one settled carefully balanced against her leg before pulling her hand from it, up to try and bat futilely at the encroaching darkness. It takes a moment, and a low laugh from him at the battle she wages against herself, but eventually her eyes are visible, shining from the ebon-colored mass.

"Give me a moment, bitte. I need to contain zis _beast_ again."

It's a small plea, hidden beneath the veil of a requested command. The Harbinger is lowered, the sound of the turbine powering down audible as he stalks forward and snatches a lock separate from the mass with pallid fingers. It coils around one finger before slipping like water out of his grasp to once again join the rest. Strange and frightening creature, that mane, tugged along against its will as she moves to look for the one thing she knows it can't usually escape.

"I still don't quite understand why you don't simply cut it down to the roots." he muses, taking a few steps after her in perhaps mild curiosity.

"I haf no intention of turning into a rabid dust bunny made of void ven it comes time to maintain it. Besides." A lilt of musical taunting, directed toward him. "Do you really _vant_ zese little inky tendrils sneaking all over? I'm sure zey vould enjoy vatching you; you vould haf to _burn_ zem to get rid of zem, I'm sure…"

A low noise of contemplation as green gaze settles on the missing door pin, just out of sight beneath the eave of one of the support pillars in what was intended to be their sparring field. "Point taken. I like my privacy."

"Und I am sure you can only recognize me by mein hair some days…"

He pauses, looks toward her at the poke with an indignant expression creeping over his face. "I'm sure there are other ways. But I should let you carry on in that search of yours."

After that, he has simply decided to keep the pin's location a secret. He'll justify it as punishment.


	40. 040 Fake

_His smile charms._  
Those around him flock and fawn to make his every request a reality, swayed by the adoring glint of pearl-white.  
 _His eyes alight and full of life._  
The amiability in his gaze, calming blues lifted from the abyss. Hypnotic and enchanting, drawing in those who would want to offer themselves for his cause.  
 _His laugh, engaging._  
Musical voice lilts to soothe the masses upset and wronged by actions wrought by the sire before, promises of change to come for the good wafting to hurt ears.

 **The man is a saint.**

Those not blinded in cordiality know the truth.  
The facade, the _lie_.

The fangs in his mouth, waiting to strike open and yielding throats.  
The venom in the eyes, striking down all who would stand up and oppose. Those who would refuse to go to the slaughter.  
The dirge in the voice, already humming out eulogies to bury the unwitting and unwilling.

A wolf leading sheep to the plummet over an unforgiving surf. The words of the saviour are built on mountains of bodies and over rivers of blood. He embodies them, in deceptive sainthood. The wolf knits blankets now of murdered wool to throw over the gaze of those easily lead astray, to hide his atrocity from those so gullible to follow after.

The wolf leads another flock to the edge. They'll sing his praises and speeches of thanks as they fall to join their brethren, still clutching at his coat-tails.

He is not his sire, but he is worse still.

 **The man is a Blakk.**

* * *

 **A/N** : Have some Xerxes the Manipulator for the next milestone. Something to tide me over while I get my life back in working order.


	41. 041 Apple

He swears to … something that these are homing apples.  
Do homing apples really exist?  
Probably on some level of transcendent apple sentience, the main element of which happens to be a certain six-year-old currently sitting in the bows at the top of the nearest tree in the orchard.

The first one was forgivable, landing right on the curve of his forehead and scalp. He was distracted and hadn't been watching his surroundings as well as he should have. A careful side-glance and side-step are given to avoid it, but another of the fruit hits him and bounces across the crown of his head.

The dazed thought following is an obvious observation, that ripe apples are indeed quite hard. His next thought comes after his head clears and only then does he think to look up.

The culprit is sitting nestled in the higher branches of the nearest fruiting tree. He recognizes the little frame, the silks, and most especially the giggle that issues from it. He sees the next apple flying and side-steps away from it before looking up at it again, an expression of disgruntlement crossing his face.

"Ex _cuse_ you, young lady!"

She jumps at the address, head turning to face her father standing beneath the tree with arms crossed. Already, both the spots hit are feeling sore; he's sure they'll be bruising soon.

"What do you think you are doing up there? _And_ dressed in the good silks?"

A sheepish look crosses her face as she grabs another apple and drops it. The branches shake a bit as she carefully begins the descent down, making sure to mind herself and the dress she's wearing.

"Mama wants to make candied stuffed apples, but she needed apples." is the response. "She's so busy preparing the kitchens for baking, she hadn't the time to pick good fresh ones."

Holt loses the internal struggle to remain in control and, with a small sigh of defeat, walks forward to grasp his daughter's waist and help her down the rest of the way. "Do try to avoid turning people into fruit salad next time?"

It's the best he can muster in the face of the child as she straightens her skirts and brushes herself down. The look of confusion she gives him says it all. He points to the darkening bruise on his forehead with yet another sigh, seeing once more that sheepish look cross her face.

"Sorry. I didn't see you."

The puppy-eyes sell it, and all he can do is purse his lips and turn around to gather the apples she has so carelessly dropped pell-mell around the tree. She takes the reprieve with a smile and that enchanting giggle, running to help with her harvest.

"Yes. Well. I suppose your mother will have _two_ different types of apples to contend with…"

* * *

 **A/N** : Welcoming the inclusion of the new pairing into this mess. Yes, more canonxoc.

i only say 'oops' when i'm legitimately sorry for something  
im not saying oops for this

have some of the new pairing.  
holt has some of the best thought processes i've written in a while, to be honest; have his debut in my bullcrap.


	42. 042 Boot

A breath is sighed as the box is opened carefully. It rests folded within the long flat rectangle, a concoction wrought by the finest leathersmiths on the Eastern Wall.

Her concoction, an expression of her own freedom. Or so she tells herself; it will not hit until years later that this expression is merely a sliver of that individual rebellion she so seeks. After all, it is still made using a color palette that has been driven into her from infancy. Something she no longer thinks about and simply gravitates toward on little more than instinct.

It is but the work of a minute to change from the plain clothing she has worn for training all these years, since she could walk a straight line at the tender age of three. The braces click audibly on the floor, carried with wafting steps currently devoid of the march that is ingrained. A dancing step, one she will use many times.

Everything fits to perfection, crafted and tailored specifically for her body, her frame. From the pointed shoulders in the jacket to the way the pant-legs taper to wrap close to her lower legs, everything is made specifically for her. Her affiliations to her ancestry, her age-old title are displayed in the carefully-added stripes of red along seams and hems, brilliant crimson against the charcoal-black.

Her hands move to pull that unruly mane up and back, away from her face to frame it sharply and fit into the cup that will hold the mask in later years, settle the fierce cannibal grin synonymous to the title in place. It is best to be used to it now.

The second box catches her attention as she slides the door-pin into place, feeling already the tug against the thick metal tether from that dastardly inky cloud. This box is a bit taller than the first, deeper as well. Opening it gives her the final piece of the uniform, one she wishes she did not have to witness but must.

She has to sit down, pulling the braces carefully off her lower legs with the slippers she used for both dance and combat training. They are replaced with the boots. Specially crafted just for this, sharing a plating of thin durable armor along the front panels and strong metal boning along both sides for additional support of her weakened ankles, to be used in conjunction with the braces.

They are slipped on, zipped and latched tight, just as snug a fit as the rest of the uniform, made especially for her. The braces come next, locked around the inside of the leg, the sole-supports slipped with ease into channels on the bottom soles of each boot. There is slight resistance with a light click as they are fitted and it causes a raised brow in mild curiosity.

She stands, pulling on the black leather gloves that complete the full uniform, standing at a relaxed attention in front of the mirror in her room. The full picture cuts that same intimidating figure all Wars have had, sharply-dressed and with the commanding posture; straight back, squared shoulders, lofted head.

The click renews itself in her attention and she glances downward before diverting her weight just slightly on her left leg. She feels the pressure moving through her ankle rather than through the support on the back of the brace, a small twinge of pain before it eases away against the sole-support. The shift activates a small mechanism, a tiny thin blade snapping out the front of the sole of her boot, beneath the toe. Another quick shift forward releases the lock, a spring pulling the little blade back in.

A snap to brief attention is given before she makes her way out, heading for the public central stage where her father and his comrades wait to officially debut their successors. Despite the reminders set in place of her handicap, she does admit to herself that the pros outweigh the cons on the new boots.

* * *

 **A/N** : Decided to go with something a bit bittersweet for this one. Given the significance of the boots in her life, War was the obvious choice.


	43. 043 Pest

His first mistake is forgetting to listen for opening doors in his Citadel. He's usually better at keeping track of his surroundings, but this project consumes him mentally, and so for this, he forgets in its favor.

It starts around noon, just after lunchtime. The door opens, he glances in its direction briefly, but after no voices or pittering sound, he ignores it and resumes work. The door opens again, a half hour later. A small mental acknowledgement is given it, but no physical one.

It isn't until the sixth time this happens, every half hour right on cue, that he starts … noticing that things are missing. Pens are one thing, he has a small bundle of them on his desk, let alone in it. Stationary is just as easy, it has its own drawer. The stapler, on the other hand, is not so easy to replace.

A clawed hand absent-mindedly searches for it where he left it last, glancing down to find it missing. It takes him a moment to process this before beginning a futile search of the immediate area in the hopes it was simply brushed off the desk at some point. It is nowhere to be found.

The door opens again.

He sits upright, waiting patiently with eyes trained on his desk. Something tells him the stapler has indeed grown feet and wandered off. It doesn't take long for his thieving ghost to reveal itself, a small dark arm slipping over the back edge in search of something new. He watches it a moment, sees the fingers touch and wrap around the tube of paperclips he keeps for small packets and folders.

It starts to slide backwards with its prize, but not before the industrialist snaps forward with a blaze of residual Dark Water, flaring along creases and joints with bright red light. His hand wraps around the lower arm of his intruder, just above the wrist. The move is greeted with a small squeak of surprise, scared blue eyes meeting his as he looks over the back of the desk, using it as stabilizing.

"Put. The paperclips. Back. Xerxes."

There is a hissing snarl in his voice before the boy slowly lets go of the container. As soon as he knows they're back on the desk, red-ringed green eyes fall on his child, this … hellspawn.

"Where is my stapler." It's more of a demand than a question and the tone of his voice stops the boy from struggling.

"I left it with Marius."

"You … left it with your infant brother."

"We're making art!"

"With a stapler?"

"…Art doesn't have to make sense!"

Thaddius pauses, mouth opening as though to say something before snapping it closed again. The boy has a point there. He concentrates instead on his missing office supplies.

"If I let you go, you are going to retrieve the stapler and anything else you've stolen from my desk and bring them back here. Am I understood?"

Xerxes makes a small noise of confirmation, but it sounds defiant. It doesn't relinquish the grip on his arm.

"I said, 'Am I understood', Xerxes."

There is that growl again, low and threatening. The boy's lips draw thin at this.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Finally, he lets him go. "If everything you stole from me is not back on this desk in ten minutes or less, you will be working in Factory 3 for a week." The old industrialist collapses back onto his chair as his son makes to run out. "Remember. I know _every inch_ of my Citadel, Xerxes. I will find you if you hide."

The door shuts. Dealing with his pest of a son has made him forget the entire reason this started, reminded only when he puts his hand down where the stapler still isn't.

* * *

 **A/N** : Xerxes happened. It was glorious.  
Have some more DadThad and WeeXerxes.


	44. 044 Burn

She smells him before she sees him. Which is her first clue that something isn't quite right. Holt is to hygiene like day is to night. Him skipping his meticulous routine is practically unheard of, and this realization makes the hair stand on the back of her neck.

She knows he's been standing there for a solid fifteen minutes, outside the front door of the main estate. He hasn't made a move for the latches at all. It's worrying. She can't stand this ... weirdness any longer, and opens one of the double doors. It probably isn't the best idea she's had, and Mu only settles such a conclusion with a noise to add to her aghast shock at what awaits her.

He's sort of listing to one side, head tilted with glazed eyes and hazy gaze. Disheveled and unshaven, the uniform askew as though it hasn't been straightened recently, if at all. Battered, bruised. He's been gone for weeks now after summons, and now she's wondering what it was for, to come back in such state.

Redoubling after the initial shock, she carefully moves to try and get into his line of sight. She's tentative, cautious. Unsure how he'll react if she touches him, so keeps a fair distance.

"...Holt...?"

It comes out timid, though she can't help but startle when his gaze snaps toward her and focuses. She can see his breath quicken; the odd lines made by the improperly worn uniform help accentuate it, as well as something more unnerving. It takes all mind off the fact that he looks like he hasn't seen a bar of soap much less slept in those missing weeks. It looks disturbingly like he hasn't eaten either, a certain drape about the jacket drawing attention to a sunken middle, and making the similar curves of his face all the more prominent.

"What ... what happened?" Her concern is evident, projected more than she would like it to be.

His mouth moves, slowly. Like language has escaped him and he is trying to wrestle it back. "D...do nnn...don't 'member..." It's slurred and hard to understand at first. His brow furrows, obviously trying to make it clearer. Once more, his mouth makes the motions as though speaking, one hand raised with the pointer finger up as though that will help him enunciate better. "Am ... ho...hommme..."

She expected a lack of his witty sarcasm, the quirked smirk, the rolling eyes. It still floors her that he has ... none of that left after whatever ordeal he's encountered. Very carefully, she reaches forward as a test, lightly touches the back of one hand in a vie to grab it and lead him inside.

Before she can utter verbal assurances, he pulls back with a jerk and a strangled yelp. The movement is so sudden, she practically mirrors him straight to the yell of surprise. It takes a couple seconds of oppressive tension for him to come to his own terms that he's not in any sort of danger and settles into a ragged calm. His hand seeks finally, without aim, and clasps with a surprisingly firm grip around hers when she offers it back to him. It doesn't take long to lead him inside.

She is shutting the door when Mu makes a noise from her shoulder, pointing frantically in her frazzled husband's direction. Or general direction, rather; he's taken it on himself to try and make it ... somewhere. However, it's not the uncertain steps or the noticeable lilting posture that catches the Lung's attention, and now hers.

It's the marks on his temples, circular burns that disappear into the hairline.

She can't explain what she's feeling now. Controlled fury, maybe? It's bubbling beneath the surface. Suspicions begin to rise. Someone hurt him, addled his head around. She knows who, but just in case...

"...Holt...?" Tentative, calm. Certainly not a picture for the angry knot starting to form in her chest, pushing a lump through her throat. Her hand reaches for the marks on his temple closest to her, her voice coming out stifled. "Holt, who hurt you."

It's more of a demand, not something she meant to be conveyed. Her fingertips can almost touch the branded burn now, raw and shiny red. His hand snaps up, wrapping tight around hers encroaching. It doesn't hurt, merely keeps her from making contact, his body language once more giving his subtler cues of fear ... and one more of resolution.

"It's ... over. I'm done."

Despite a slight hesitation, he speaks with clarity and determination before letting her go. She withdraws, watching him take three steps that aren't shaky or hunched. Three steps with his back straight and his head raised with a lost confidence. Three steps before she sees one knee buckle and she's darting forward to catch him as he falls, calling for one of the maids to assist.

* * *

 **A/N** : Had this rolling around after the last episode left me reeling.

I have officially rejected canon thus far and so, this is the unfortunate start to Antihero/Protag Holt. And this was the perfect prompt to do it with.


	45. 045 Jail

Five years.

That's all they gave him for what. Social endangerment, brought on by unleashing nothing short of an army on the Western 99 Caverns? He's sure there are more charges of cultural property destruction in the Outland Reach. He knows he won't be able to return there for some time, if ever.

Still, it's a tiny sentence for an event of this magnitude. Perhaps it is his familial connections. Maybe it was the ever-charismatic smile or the engaging laugh that charmed his judge into giving him a lesser punishment. Five years is nothing to him, but it makes the Shane livid. She was hoping for longer, he knows it.

The fact that he has avoided prison this long is testament to his usual cautious step and careful building. Like a proper warlord. However, he had predicted he would be here after returning into the depths. Slugterra survived without him for his one-year sabbatical prior. The Industries survived that one year fine. He knows Neville will continue to watch the company in his absence, almost as much as he knows his assistant director will reprimand him soundly every visit he makes.

He's managed his way straight into the cell designed for his father decades back. Shane's orders, after all; she knows him better than most and that if he wants to escape, there will be no stopping him. This is where he is to stay, without contact of other prisoners and visitors under supervision. Even guards are changed out regularly enough.

Xerxes is, after all, a master manipulator. Underminer extraordinaire. Compared to his father before him, more and more people give him what he wants willingly with carefully placed words.

Still, he starts nothing. He instigates nothing, isolated from the rest of the prison properly. He deals with Neville's regular scoldings once a week for five years. He reads, he draws to pass the time, looks over approved plans for improving his monorail system. Five years to him is nothing.

He can handle this life, safely secluded behind reinforced walls despite Neville's strong protests that he can get him out sooner if he would just give the word. The punishment is nothing compared to the reward. Almost twenty years of building and scheming has finally delivered him what he always sought out to do from the beginning.

To see his little brother finally smile, to hear him laugh, without residual fear to draw him back in. To make Marius human again.

* * *

 **A/N** : Something short, something Xerxes.

No specific Shane secongen used, so use your imagination!


	46. 046 Grove

The house is quiet when he returns home from patrols. _Unsettling_ , really.

The trees that line the front walk cast shadows across the path. After the day he's had so far, he can't help but watch them with a hint of paranoia. A residual instinct he's garnered throughout the day, he's sure. While he's happy to be back home, there are little quirks and twitches he won't be rid of until he knows his family is safe.

He pulls his horse, sturdy and strong, to its docking bay next to the front doors and slides off of it, walking up the side stairs carefully through the service entrance of the foyer. Caution follows his every move and thought, entering slowly into the house from there and making absolutely sure every nook and cranny within range is clear.

The house is still unearthly silent, which considering his otherwise rowdy young daughter is worrying. Same with the lack of any of the household help. He moves through the house slowly, looking for any sign of struggle or anything more. He's received enough threats to his and his family's well-being that he can't be too wary of seemingly unnatural quiet.

He's sneaked around the house, both upstairs and down. While the lack of evidence of conflict has lessened his anxieties considerably, there is one last place to check. The back orchards.

He slides out the back of the house from the kitchens, shutting the doors behind him without a sound. There is finally some movement, far into the confines of the peach trees near the back wall. He moves nothing like he did under the Emperor's command, smooth and quick now whereas he aimed to make a presence before. The shadows cast through the sheltering canopies of trees hide him well, wafting over the muted green and brown and helping him blend. Even the noticeable pattern on his favor, sewn to the lapels of the jacket, meld into him.

He's nearly to the small party on the patio beneath the wall, just starting to pick out familiar faces ... when Swick pops up in front of him. He stops dead with a strangled noise of surprise, hand hovering near the stock of his blaster before it registers who he's staring at.

"Hey! If it isn't the man of the hour!"

Holt straightens himself up as though the start hadn't happened, making a show of smoothing one sleeve on his jacket when it hits him. "...'Man of the hour'...?"

Swick snorts. "Sure as Lumino brightens, the nimrod forgets what day's today." After a small look of questioning is his answer, he adds on, "And here I finished my patrols early to help set up. It's your anniversary? Remember?"

The forced remembrance dawns on him. He's sure Swick can see it plastered on his face if that smug smirk has anything to say about it. "Well. That does explain why I can see my father-in-law _skulking_ about..."

Wyvern caught his attention early, for certain, the Dragonlord pacing the patio with his eyes on the attendees. For what purpose or end, he doesn't know or understand. He's pretty sure no one really knows or understands.

Ili comes into view soon enough, running giggling from her twin aunt and uncle. A flare of her silken skirts and with a dangling ornament in her hair, Ki squealing in joy from her shoulder alongside her. The Lung is the first to notice Holt, making a singsong chirruping noise that is mimicked by the other Lungs in his vicinity. Not excluding Mu, whom he catches sight of turning about before he sees his wife respond in kind.

Tatzel lights up, a beaming smile and twinkling eyes as she glides from the conversation she was engaged in, a bow of excuse before she moves. She's second in line for his affection, as he strides forward to scoop up his eager child in one fluid movement to plant a greeting kiss to her forehead, with Swick chuckling behind them.

"So glad you are home." Tat states, waiting for him to shift the giggling Ili to one arm, opening the free one to her. She takes the embrace readily, returning it as he plants a small peck to her ridged forehead.

"You know I wouldn't miss this in the _slightest_ , my dear." he assures her, sharing a side-glance with Swick as he swaggers passed. A silent thanks for the reminding, and that same smug nod of the shorter's head in acknowledgement and return. "Shall we, my _lovely_ ladies?"

Ili gives that giggling confirmation, mirrored only in laughter by her mother, his endearingly patient wife. Relief has overtaken tension of uncertainty. With his family alongside, he joins the gathering with them beneath the bowing boughs of the peach trees, nestled safely in the curve of the back wall.

* * *

 **A/N** : i was feeling fluffy and hotzel happened. been a bit since i worked on this, there will be more to come as we near the halfway milestone!

i just want this asshole to be happy even if he'll still be an asshole


	47. 047 Autumn

Even underground, seasons change noticeably. It's in the temperature of the air, chillier than the summer months. Mist is starting to form again, rising off standing bodies of water to creep along the ground. Even the Lumino knows and understands, taking longer to brighten and losing power earlier and earlier until the onslaught of ambient night begins to take more of the day.

The mushrooms are widely unaffected by such changes. If anything, the giant foliage brightens a bit more in the early autumn season to dull as winter sneaks closer. However, the trees show it.

She loves this time of the year, and he knows it just as well. He knew it the moment he had really begun to know her. It is the season she grows most creative in. Flourishes. When that ingrained training seems to lose its hold. He notices now that she is more and more attracted to fall-appropriate colors; the muted greens and golds, the bronzes and browns.

The click of the cane announces their presence together, strolling the grounds of their estate toward where the train-car sits, waiting patiently. A chime of jewelry accompanies, the tapping cadence of eternal practiced footfalls and rhythmic rustling silken skirts. He wears very little color, clad in a suit of charcoal black and a single brass pin in the shape of a leaf on one lapel. She, however, is an explosion of those crisp seasonal colors with a hint of startling blue in the beads on the edges of the sash.

He has been working for so long that the events of society at their level of wealth are still something new to him. She was born to flow and infiltrate, even if he is the better at speeches. Parties for all seasons seem frivolous, but now he has a chance to gloat regularly concerning how well his family is doing. An industrial madman to take his place, a seasoned general to take hers. Yes, they're doing very well, all things considered.

"I see you vatching ze trees." she teases, that twinge of melody on her voice. Moments like this, he knows why she was named as she was.

Red-ringed jade finds her, softening a bit before scanning the towering line of trees in question. They are shedding leaves, a slow rain of color. Peaceful, really. He couldn't have chosen a better estate to retire to.

"It is hard not to."

She laughs, that twinkling delicate chime of a laugh. So unfitting for a woman of her skillset, of her history, of her dominance. Yet so fitting, all the same. She pulls away, swirls through the cloud brought on by the leaves falling beneath her.

Admittedly, he's not watching the trees.

* * *

 **A/N** : I reject your canon and substitute my own! Given that autumn is my favorite season, what better way to love it than with my favorite OTP.


End file.
